
3^ ■^. *''"^^4a ' - 





"-i*!^'^ .<• ..-^-.K-^' - s^ 



UP-COUNTKY LETTERS: 



EDITED BY 



PROF. B , National Observatory. 



o-r- 

1^ j,^.,^„Jl.,c±^ ^ -^■■ 



- Time drivetb onward fast : 



And iu a little while, our lij^s are dumb. 

LOTOS EXTEI18. 



NEW- YORK: .; 
D. Al'PLETON AND COMPANY, 200 BROADWAY, 
AND 10 LITTLK BRITAIN, LONDON. 

1852. 






Entered according to Act of Congress, in the yenr 1S52, by 
D. APPLETON & CO., 

In the Clerk's Office of the District Court for the Southern District 

of New-Yorl;. 



JOHN F. TROW, 
PBINTEK AND 8TEEE0TYPEB, 

49 Ann-Street 



J *, > * > 



» , 



Dear Reader: 

It is scarcely necessary to repeat 
to you the some-time discussions which have been 
had in regard to the publication of these letters. 
Time, in giving them a certain perspective, has 
also removed any unpleasant doubt as to the propri- 
ety of showing them to whoever will care to read. 
A friend suggests that they should be called " Up- 
Sky Letters," and when you come upon a page 
which offers you no special point or purport, it 
may be charitable to read it as " up-sky," keeping 
your sky, — for tone's sake, — over the Up-Country. 
A few passages in a letter of late date from 
Pundison House, may be pertinent. I give the 
following : 



1 



Editorial, 



" I am now so occupied, my dear B , with 

health and something to do, that my foregone ob- 
jections to the book seem as unimportant as the 
letters themselves. The world rolls, and we roll 
with it into new moods and postures. 

" Briefly, sir : the letters are trifles. If you 
choose to throw them up to the wind, I do not 
knoAv that there is any bad seed in them that will 
grow into mischief; but they will scarcely grow 
corn or potatoes. 

" I may have anticipated — long ago — that those 
papers would, some day, be gathered together ; but 
now — I look back upon the few past years as upon 
a dream-vista, from which I am happily escaped. 
Dreams are very well, but action is better. And 
illness has its uses, but health only is glorious, and 
the fulfilment of God's design. 

" Do as you please. To those who are in the 
same invalid and dilapidated condition in which 
the letters were written, — those who are hedged 
within a small round of sameness and watching, — 
there may be some amusement in observing how 
another in the same condition has managed to get 
on. 



Editorial. 6 

"Except that I am now so busy, I should expect 
to feel an occasional twinge, at the sight of things 
not so pleasant in type, as in the writing : for it is 
astonishing how much one can say or write to-day, 
which to-morrow, or next week, he would like to 
withdraw, or say with a difference. But life, with 
me, is too short for niceties of this kind. Let us 
travel on." 

I can add nothing that will be of use. The 
only changes which have been made, are in the 
names of persons and places. 

, Respectfully, 

The Editor. 

National Observatory, I 

WaaUingtoD, April, 1852. f 



CONTENTS. 



FACE. 

I. Israel : and the Man in the Obseevatokt.. 13 

II. Proposals, 19 

III. PuNDisoN House, 23 

IV. Up-Country Sundat, 28 

V. Monday Mornino, 33 

VI. Mo>-day Evening, 44 

The Long House, 47 

VII. The Pundison Dogs, 52 

VIII. Drive to the Bryars' 57 

The Late Dr. , 62 

IX. Sunday Night 69 

X. Frank, 7G 

XI. T. AND THE EeCTOR, 80 

XII. Midsummer, 84 

XIII. The Storm, S7 

XIV. Frank and Mr. P. Eiverizixg, OO 

XV. Summer "Weather, 95 

XVI. " TnANKSGH-INO " BY Frank, 97 

XVH. The Hammock and the Placer, 103 



8 



PAGI. 

XVIII. The Sea-Side, 105 

Letter from Frank in the City. The Eum- 

Beeatiier, 107 

Letter from Frank in the City. The Birth- 

Day, Ill 

I. The Dark Days, 117 

Postscript. Arrival of Tidy, 119 

II. PuNDisoN House in November, 122 

III. Burglars : Kate and Bob, 127 

IV. The Last of November, 132 



t^EIiiittr. 

L Method at Pundison House. Laws and Eeg- 

ULATIONS 141 

II, Feet-Pounding : Star-Catching, 147 

III. Tib and Good-Bye to Jenny, 152 

IV. Talk with the Professor, 153 

V. T. : Joy : Lady Miriam, 164 

VI. News from Frank, 169 

VIL Frank's Log-Book I.., 172 

Vm. Thanksgiving, 183 

IX. Frank's Log— II., 1'J4 

X. Lady Miriam's Visit, 203 

XL Sunday Night Speculations, 209 

Xn. Frank's Log— III, 213 

Xin. Singing "China," 224 



9 



PAGE. 

XIV. New-Yeau's Day, '51, 238 

XV. Pkotest, 243 

XVI. Biz: Bum, 246 

XVII. VULGAKITY OF HEALTH, 249 

XVIII Neuralgia, 253 

XIX. The Old Clock, 253 

XX. Tidy, 263 

XXI, The Tiblxng, 267 

XXII. The Late Mobning, 271 

XXIII. Mr. Pundison's Grandfather, 276 

XXIV. The Old Conneotiout Sunday, 282 

XXV. Visit to Lady M. on the Mountain, 290 

XXVL Dbive Slow, 302 

L Spring, 809 

Letter from Frank at Paris 310 

Do. Do. Do 314 

II. His Arrival Home, 316 

His Good-Bye, 318 

III. His Departure, 321 

IV. The Morning After, 323 

V. The Funeral 325 

VL Addio, 330 



Innmirn 



I 



UP-GOUNTEY LETTERS 



Israel , anir tire Irofessur. 

PuDclieon House, Up-Country, I 
June — , 1850. J 

Dear Prof. : — Have you any fiiend whose presence 
is as a cordial to you — a tonic — a fortifier ; avIio builds 
great walls about you against the enemy ; who lifts 
you when you fall, and strengthens your knee-joints ; 
who is as a mountain against all moi-al north-easters 
and unexplainable calamities; who brings to you al- 
ways calm weather ? 

Such a fiiend I had last winter, whom I had not 
seen or heard from during the last fifteen years. 
Hearing that he was in these parts, I besought him 
to come up and compare notes. I did this not with- 
out some fear and trembling, that I should not see 



14 Up-Country Letters. 

my old acquaintance, but only certain ruins, as it 
were, and distant hints of what had been. I said to 
myself, some one will knock and I shall open the door, 
and seeing a tall strange-looking man, I shall not know 
my old friend. But it was not so. I did open the 
door, and put eyes upon the imdoubted Israel.- It was 
he, or, if you please, it was him, and I was I ; so at 
least he was pleased to intimate. 

Looking sharply upon him, came back to my 
memory that same strange and slightly quizzical 
look, now so sharp and well-defined, then only sha- 
dowed forth in his boy-features. Then the boy, now 
the man. And it was pleasant to find a man who 
has decided that two and two are four ; who has no 
scrupulous doubts that three times five are fifteen ! 
A man of facts and opinions, and principles, and not 
of fragments of such, which make up the composition 
of most people in these wise days. 

Ah, how we did talk, sir ! all day and all the 
long evening, we ceased not till the week was gone. 
Outdoors the air was keen as a two-edged sword, 
so we piled on the wood and the anthracite and talked. 
Don't speak of eating and drinking, sir, to a man 
who is hungry for a talk. Remind us of no com- 
mon appetites. My friend Israel and I are having 



Israel and the Professor. 15 

a talk — say rather an illumination ; a bonfire, into 
■which Ave throw all old prejudices and roots of eiTor 
and get at the mere common sense of things, — the sim- 
ple statement — the original announcement — the base of 
the pyramid. 

Like yourself, my iiiend is a Professor. He expounds 

the mathematics, and so forth, in College, in one 

of the great States of the West. Only for this, and his 
wife and young Israels, I would have kept him : I would 
have enacted a higher law that he should stay in .these 
parts for the rest of his days. My friend seemed built 
for yeai-s of rough-and-tumbling ; at least, more so than 
myself. His temperament also favoi-s him. His calm 
weather will be to him as a score, at least. May he 
live as long as he desires, and find fair weather Avhenever 
he travels. We did the best we could to keep him ; 
gave him our room, and retired ourselves to the north 
room. I did not dislike the change. The windows 
look north and east, and the sunrise came blazing in 
every morning in a way that was dehghtful. I remarked 
also to Mrs. P. that our advantages in seeing northern 
lights in that room, would be veiy great. Like the sun- 
rise, the north star looked directly upon us. 

Being slightly given to questionable wanderings in 
speculative matters, it was pleasant to feel my friend 



16 Up-Country Letters 

pulling at my coat-tail occasionally, to get me down in 
a safer and healthier air. It's of no use, he would say, 
pleasantly, you wilLonly get lost and have infinite trouble 
and path-searching to get home again. You will drop 
down in the night in a strange country, and somebody 
perhaps, bringing a hasty candle to your balloon, will 
blow you up. Stay at home, sir, and be content, and 
when you have an impossible question, ask your dog 
Rover, and he will give you as good a reply as you will 
get from anybody. Some things are, whether we under- 
stand them, or not. And some are evil and some are 
good. Choose the one and let alone the other. In this, 
you have the whole matter. 

The Professor did not confine himself to me, but made 
friends of the whole house. Although he is con^reffa- 
tional, as it is called, in his religious opinions, I found 
Mrs. P. getting quite partial to him. Not that she 
liked his dogmas, but it was so charming to find a man 
who has dogmas and defends them. 

Parson , from the Full Moon, a village on our bor- 
ders — called here soon after the Professor ariived, and they 
talked up all manner of matters, theological and profes- 
sional. Being at the hour when I usually nap, I subsi- 
ded gently for a space, and slept while they mutualized. 
A few days afterwards I drove the Professor down to the 



Israel and tiik Professor. 17 

\nllag-e to return his visit. We fortunately found tlie 
minister in his study again, and it being my nap-hour, 
and the reaction from the drive being in fact, irresistible, 
T took another — and I will say a very grand — snooze, in 
the ministers rocker. As I partially waked, now 
and then, I heard them pounding and expounding upon 
the old divines, and Princeton and Princeton affairs, and 
I slept perhaps with more than my usual satisfaction, 
from knowing that upon those hard and knotty points, 
I should have been as a child before them. We came 
home through an atmosphere as sharp as needles, — in the 
last rays of a brilliant sunset, — and the next day my 
friend went down into Tac Hatterac^ promising to re- 
turn again ; but now I am sitting with windows open 
in this blushing month of June, and my friend comes 
not. He has gone home, long ago, by the southern 
route, and is all absorbed in his mathematics and young 
Israels. 

My dear Professor, you see now my position. I am 
distrait — from this loss. Where, now, shall I find some 
one Avho will be to me as this Israel ? 

Exploring about the country, I pause over your 
observatory ; and, as near the sky as is possible in that 
building, I behold a stoutish man, black-eyed as the 
midnight, who is sitting in a jockey-chair, on a circular 



1 



18 Up-Country Letters. 



railroad, wheeling himself silently here and there, or 
spying through a tube, among the stars and other spots 
of the univei'se. A man whose only dealing is with 

facts. Ah, my dear B , you are the man for me. 

Home, from cruising about the world, I apprehend, my old 
friend, that you are my fixed fact. Be this prop to me, 
Professor. Sm-roimd me as a mountain. You are pre- 
cisely in the condition in which the Dominie was to me 
— in that we have not seen each other for these many 
years. Let ms, also, compare notes. Let us sit down 
at these magnificent distances, you with your cigar, and 
I with my Souchong, and be a committee of one, in 
each place, to decide upon matters and things in ge- 
neral. Shall it be so ? Yours, Z. P. 



II. 

June, 1850. 

If you accept my proposition, sir, I shall count upon 
your being a man of nerve ; for I revolve tlirougli a 
variety of moods. I am tins, to-day ; that, to-morrow ; 
and the other thing next week ; that is to say, strong, 
or weak, or indifterently stupid, as the weather and my 
physical condition permit. Have you the courage to 
face such an announcement ; for, if not, we had best 
come to a quick conclusion. But one thing, as it 
seems to me, you may count upon with some certainty : 
that we do get the virtue of the sunshine and the rain, 
and the blue sky (leaving the stars out), better than do 
you in town, and upon them we can always report. 

And a man who is so busy with the sky, must have 
some interest in knowing how it looks elsewhere in the 
world, what storms are coming up, and what chances 



20 Up-Country Letters. 

we have of a fair to-morrow. Now that you have come 
home from wandering about tlie world, and we are both 
housed, for some little time at least, it will not be like 
sending letters off, as heretofore, to the South Seas, or 
wherever your ship might be dashing the spray. Your 
last letters from Malta and Algiers are already obsolete. 
It is pleasant to know that what I send you will not 
need to get stale from mere travel ; and I shall expect 
from you, sir, the freshest and brightest of all the starry 
news. 

We have a few friends here and there, in this world 
and the old, who are in the habit of sending us an occa- 
sional " Good morning." Once in six months or so, we 
look about to see if any are missing, sending out the 
usual inquiry, and if we get an " All's well," we make 
but little pause, and plunge on in the great stream of 
life. By and by, as we so look about us, one and 
another are gone. There comes no reply; but a few 
lines from a friend of our friend will tell us that he has 
finished his correspondence here : his hand is palsied : 
it is dust. 

I propose. Professor, that we shall exchange a few 
words oftener than this six months' questioning ; and if 
your leisure will not permit you to reply to me always, I 
will, at least, have the satisfaction of saying my say. I shall 



Pkoposals. 21 

prose sometimes ; oftener, perhaps, I sliall preach ; but 
this I beg you to consider as a mere habit of talking to 
myself ; for, doubtless, ^\e have an aft'air of some import- 
ance on hand — that is to say — in getting ready for the 
next stage of life : the next and last administration of 
affairs. 

"We purpose, for the present, a life of quiet and 
repose ; we can get the sunshine here as well as in New- 
York or London, and better too. It is enough. Any 
thing more than this, and bread and meat, is — non- 
sense. 

I do not say that our sister Tidy will be wholly 
content with this plain fare. She may be looking for 
a dash of " nonsense." 

Youth should be crowned with hope, unless it has 
already foimd a hapjiy resting-place in its own indwell- 
ing joy ; and it may be that to our sister the mornings 
and evenings may even now roll by all as on golden 
wheels. I have a suspicion that this is so, in all its ful- 
ness and beauty, but almost tremble to utter a word 
as to what may be iu her future. Our friend Frank 
may know, but, as yet, I doubt if he has A\'hispered 
the thought even to his own soul. 

But of further travel we have no need. It is pro- 
nounced on all sides that the pause we have now made 



22 Up-Countrt Letters. 

is a liappy one ; at the longest, it will be to me, at least, 
but short. Let us use these last days in calmness, to 
get ready for the great journey. 

We can send our thought to England or the North 
Pole, and that is as good as to go there, and saves 
trouble and wear and tear. Nature has decked herself 
pleasantly, to keep people at home and by their own 
fire-sides. They are nearer heaven there than elsewhere 
— is it not so, my old friend ? — and more likely to 
reach heaven at last. Home, home ; where is it, in 
London or Paris ? Who cares to see you there ? Who 
comes down to meet you at breakfast? Who says 
"good night" to you, or gives you " the kiss for good 
morning T 

Good-bye, Professor, before I change from this tear- 
ful mood to one of wrath, at the memory of that smutty 
and smoky London ; and let us thank the sweet heaven, 
my old friend, that instead of a fog-blanket, we have 
the " blue sky over all." Yours, Z. P. 



III. 

June — , 1850. 

It is niorniug again, and we have the doors and win- 
dows all wide open for another summer day. How are 
you, my star-gazer ? How is it with you ? "Were you 
up all night in that round attic ? Ah, what do you 
know of the sweet morning ? 

My friend Capt. , of Bugle Place, says the 

luxury of life is to read Bishop Berkley in the morning 
and play chess in the evening. I shall instead, write to 
tlie Professor. 

Pray, what had Bishop Berkley to do with such 
real things as this pure air and light, such palpabilities, 
such royal, such happy matters of fact ? Besides, all 
the world knows that when he, the Bishop, " said there 
was no matter, and proved it, it was no kind of matter 
what he said." Of course not. But I am willing, this 



24 Up-Country Letters. 

morning, to ignore all the world that is not wanted for 
our especial purposes. I am in the mood for this to-day. 

" Let us alone, let us alone, 
For in a little while our lips are dumb." 

Ah, Professor, is it a sin in me to have made you 
this flourish, so as the more gently to announce to you, 
that this, at Pundison House, is our predominant mood ; 
that our feeling to the great world is that of an ever- 
lasting good-bye, — that we say with the lotos-eaters, now 
that we have floated aside into this quiet up-country 
home, — let us alone — let us alone, we have had some- 
what to do with each other and with sufficiently happy 
results ; now let us part in peace ; we will stop here, if 
you please, while you go on. Some day we may meet 
again, but let us make no promises. People upon the 
outer borders — outsiders all, addio, addio. 

Surgit amari aliquid, say you ? Oh no. Professor, 
a thousand times " no." But let us have one thing at 
a time. 

In this new phase, and with the added lines of the 
last ten years, I wonder, sir, if you would know me ? 
It would be strange if we should some day meet as 
strangers, and more strange if we should converse to- 
gether and unwittingly get talking of old days and 



PuNDisoN House. 26 

by-gones, and mutual Mends, and still not know each 
other. 

I have told you that this place of our retreat is quiet 
and out of the great world. It has not the quiet, how- 
ever, of that charming land of the lotos-eaters. We do 
not hear the solemn beat of the sea ; there is no stream 
in the distance that seems to fall and pause along the 
cliffs, like a downward smoke : no gaps in the hills 
opening into inland vales, nor is it " always afternoon " 
with us. Good morning is my favorite salutation, what- 
ever be the time of day. I do not like to acknowledge 
that the night is coming, much less that it has come. I 
like to make believe, at least, that it is still morning. 

To my wife all things are just in the flush of sunrise 
and she carries the brilUance and freshness of morning 
wherever her glad countenance is seen. 

I must tell you, my old friend, privately, that my 
timbers are giving way. I am getting into the after- 
noon of my days. I fancy I can almost look over into 
that land where my sun must set. But my wife insists 
upon it that we have a long summer day before us. 

If it is only sunrise to my wife, to her sister Tidy, who 
sits half the time dreaming under the maples, it is 
not yet more than day-breuk; it is that calm hour, 
when every thing is looking for, and expecting the day, 



26 Up-Country Letters. 

which is flashing brilliantly just over the mountains, 
but is not yet arrived. But will it arrive ? Doubtless, 
Just over the mountains — so near; the morning, the 
day so near ! and will it be under this firmament, or in 
another and higher one " eternal in the heavens ?" Ah, 
my child, all our mornings are with God. 

You"'will remember my father; but it must be 
many years since you have seen him. Although past 
his threescore and ten, will you wonder if I say to you, 
that I sometimes think it is more " morning" with him 
than with any of us. Certainly he is stronger and 
heartier than I am ; and with more than twice my 
years, I do believe there is more youth at his heart than 
there is at mine. 

When you get your furlough, my old friend, you 
must take us on your way home. You shall come in 
then some Sunday night and hear us all singing our 
old-fashioned tunes. It will carry you back to old Con- 
necticut. Tunes which my father Avill tell you he heard 
at Milford, or Danbury, or New Haven, more than 
forty years ago ; and, perhaps he will add who it was 
preached on the occasion — Dr. Bellamy, or Backus, or 
may be, the famous Dr. Dwight. 

We are a little aside from thoroughfares, but accessi- 
ble, and within hearing of the outer Avorld, i. e., the buzz 



PuNDisoN House. 21 

of it, as in the rail trains that come up within a mile of 
us, and go off sputtering and screaming among the hills, 
carrying a blue smoke all along that sky. 

Also, we see in the distance, spires going up here 
and there ; and in the south and east, of a Sunday 
morning, there are not less than a half dozen bells whose 
sweet tones come up and pass on, or float and mingle 
about us. Just in the rear of the house, and from our 
upper rooms, we look down upon rapids that go gallop- 
ing away on either hand, and always by listening, we 
hear the low sound of a not distant cataract. 

Good night. Professor; I began this letter in the 
morning, but now " the dark is over all," and the week 
draws to its close. It is Saturday night. 

Addio, Z. P. 



IV. 

June, 1850. 

Blessed be this day for ever and always — in all places 
of tlie habitation of whatsoever hath tongue with which 
to rejoice and a heart to be glad with. 

But there is a difference in Sundays. A Sunday in 
old Connecticut, in those sheltered towns among the 
mountains is different, oh how widely, from the Sunday 
in this broad-featured state of New- York. But even 
here it is a holy day. 

Early in the morning every one has put on the dis- 
tinguishing look of Sunday ; a look which has great 
variations. In my father's face it is severe and inflexi- 
ble. Having shaved on Saturday, he appears by no 
means later this morning than his usual hour, and al- 
ways in a ruffle shirt, white cravat, and a shirt-collar so 
high and firm, that to look on either side he is obliged 



Up-Country Sunday. 29 

to turn himself carefully around to that quarter. As my 
father seldom removes his hat, he changes his old one 
on Sundays when he feels quite well, for one that is com- 
paratively fresh and new, but worn however with entire 
ease. 

Having breakfasted by candle-hght, the day begins 
early with him. By eight o'clock he is seated in his 
big chair before his comfortable fire, reading the New- 
York , — but Scott's Commentaries is usually 

seen on the sofa — the old folio loose sheets which have 
never been bound — and Dwight's sermons, with perhaps 
the life of Newton. 

I have said that his look is severe, but it is only so 
in the presence of others. It is as much as to say, " Do 
you know, sir, that this is the Sabbath ! Let me hear 
no idle talk, but reflect, sir, that you are in the presence 
of the King of Kings." 

But when the house is all still and deserted, and he 
is left alone with his Bible and his far-travelling thoughts 
— the dogs perhaps stretched at his feet, and no sound 
any where but the picking of a mouse in the cupboard, 
or the creak of a door, in some distant and silent cham- 
ber — then it is, in his unconscious moments, there is to 
be seen upon his ilvce, a sunny look of peace and calm- 
ness, and lordly hope, which takes at least twenty yeai-s 



30 Up-Country Letters. 

from his life. Disturb him not then, for he is looking 
over into that land where he must shortly go. He is 
communing with the happy dead. From his earliest 
years, his companions have been going away one by 
one, till now he has passed his threescore and ten, and is 
left alone, while they — have been silently gathered into 
the Kingdom of Christ. All the years, as they roll by, 
pause upon that shore : — all the kind wishes — all the 
prayers, all the aspirations of a long life, they have gone 
on to that blessed land. Ah, sir, it is not sleej) which 
keeps him so still and calm, but a true vision of the life 
to come. 

In what a noiseless way is every thing done this calm 
morning. The women go about whispering and the 
loudest break upon the stillness is Bob brushing shoes on 
the south piazza. 

It is on this day, that my wife has her happiest look. 
Always of a Sunday, she is a Uttle picture of peace and 
joy and thanksgiving. She delights in the day — in all 
its duties and services, as a bird does in song ; it is her 
life, her garden enclosed. All the week is pei-fumed, as it 
were, with her Sunday. Prayer and praise are the 
proper elements of this day, but these are so common to 
her at all times, that Sunday seems to be for her especial 
benefit — that so she might enjoy herself this day after 



Up-Country Sunday. 81 

her own heart ; it is thus to her 'a day of gladness. You 
will understand how it is, when I tell you that if, hav- 
ing a friend with us to dinner on Sunday, as, say Frank 

Biyars, or the celebrated , who so abuses my 

Claude, I say, you will perceive that if on such an occa- 
sion, I produce a small bottle of champagne, my wife 
makes never the slightest objection. She has some little 
ways on Sunday which are peculiar to the day. As for 
instance : I am brushed that morning with a searching 
exactness, and however carefully I may have arranged 
ray hair, it must always receive one more touch from 
her gentle hand. She is herself complete and perfect 
for tlie day at about ten o'clock and ten minutes : She 
then appears in a dress, about which I never remember 
any thing except its entire fitness for the day, and for my 
wife. She has the rare gift of so wearing things as to 
make much of httle. A collar, for instance, which upon 
some women would be unsightly and noticeable as such, 
is to her all neatness and propriety. To enter church 
one moment after the service begins, is a small horror, 
which she always avoids if possible. We start there- 
fore, betimes, and if I am well enough she delights to 
take my arm, and so walk as true and loving husband 
and wife up to the very door of the church. There she 
relinquishes the arm : she leaves me there, — she entere 
another presence. 



32 Up-Country Letters. 

Our walk across the Sliag-Bark and up into the vil- 
lage, (for we are wholly aside from the world,) uses up 
our fifteen or twenty minutes, especially if my wife has 
to stop once or twice to balance my hat straight on my 
head, it having a habit of canting pi^'-htly even on Sun- 
day. If we are quite late, she often leaves me on the 
bridge and walks on faster than my slow gait will carry 
me, but it is only to return after a little and take my 
arm again. This does not hasten matters at all, but it 
eases her impatience, if it is not improper to ajiply such 
a word to her on this quiet day. With one or two little 
episodes of this character, we at last reach the church 
door together, and not seldom with a brilliance of com- 
plexion on her part, which looks on her pure face, almost 
like sin. When I wish to please her particularly, I put 
on, not without great eflfort, my black gloves. I seldom 
wear gloves. They are sticky things unless the weather 
is cold, and then give me mittens. Notwithstanding all 
my efforts at economy, my wife has prevailed upon me 
to get a new overcoat, and now instead of my old gray, 
which was inexpressibly dear to me for having warmed 
me for three winters and in various lands, and for hav- 
ing cost me only six dollars in the beginning, — now I 
appear in a thing which is well enough, I suppose, but 
dismally bran-new. With this coat and my black 



Up-Country Sunday, 33 

gloves, they tell me I am renewing my youth. I only 
feel that I have parted from a true fi-iend. 

But now, sir, listen to that sweet chant, " Praise the 
Lord, praise the Lord, oh, my soul, and all that is within 
me, praise his Holy name." And the " Gloria Patri" — 
how like a solemn amen does it seem always to these 
songs of praise. 

The morning service, as you know, is pretty long, 

except when divided, as it very properly is in some 

churches. Unless I am feeling quite well, I am seldom 

able to follow through the whole service. Not unlikely 

the church itself is felt as a restraint uj^on me — not so 

much the walls and the roof as the narrow slip in which 

I am shut : continually, perhaps, I am changing about 

and getting new postures — and none of them happy 

ones — none satisfactory : if this is done it is involuntary 

and without argument. It is like tossing in dreams at 

night, of which, at the time, we know nothing. But, in 

regard to the music, I am myself conscious of swaying 

about somewhat, emphasizing it, as it were, and timing 

the whole proceeding. Mrs. P. has told me that in 

reading passages of great force in the Psalter, I have a 

habit of shaking my head, as much as to say, " That is 

very great." This may be, and I reply to her, that 

perhaps, if I was to look about I should find others, also, 

with as curious httle wavs and habits. 
2* 



34 Up-Country Letters. 

We get on, at last, to the sermon ; but even here, 
and always attractive as are our rector's sermons, I am 
not seldom seized with sudden abstractions, which carry 
me off swiftly, but noiselessly, as a chip is lifted by small 
whirlwinds in summer weather ; and, in a moment, I 
forget utterly the little church, and the rector, and the 
holy day. At this time, and while drumming perhaps 
in a lively manner on the pew-door, I am gently re- 
stored by a light pressure on my right foot. This is 
my wife's doings — she being strictly educated to think 
that drumming on a pew-door is an improper proceed- 
ing: a point which I never argue, but sometimes think 
I more than make up for this, by the severe and un- 
remitting attention which I bestow upon the rest of the 
sermon. •• 

I have said that the morning service seems lonsf to 
me. It may be partly because I was born and bred in 
a different faith ; or rather, I mean not that, but a dif- 
ferent manner of worship. But it is not this altogether, 
for the afteiTjoon prayers are perfectly enchanting, if it is 
proper to apply such a word to prayer. If they do not 
leave with me " the peace which passeth all understand- 
ing," then am I bitterly deceived. But, so far as emo- 
tion is concerned, some old-fashioned tune will be more 
heart-touching to me, than any prayer which ever fell 



Up-Country Sunday. 35 

from the Hj^s of mortal man ; for song says that which 
words cannot say, and it ascends into Heaven, which is 
its home and its continual abiding-place for ever. 

Our clergyman is almost a perfect pattern of a 
country rector ; so, at least, we think, who have had 
varieties, and have some ground for this, our present 
liking. His preaching would never draw crowds, but 
always gathers together a little circle who know how to 
appreciate good things. His sermons are like little 
cabinet pictures, exceedingly well designed, and perfect 
as a poem from first to last. I do profess to have some 
taste for a good thing, sir ; and, I assure you, this modest 
man has a rare gift of preaching, which would delight 
you to hear. I come back to our plain church and our 
plain clergyman, after our little airings about the coun- 
try, where we have heard, perhaps, the celebrated Mr. 
" Wideawake^'' or the notorious — I mean the illustrious 
— ]\fr. " New Jerusalem^'' — I return to our quiet ways 
and old-fashioned associations, precisely as after stimu- 
lants, I would seek out, with what thankfulness, the cool 
spring by the way-side, and the shade of the old oak 
tree. 

Stir me up with no long pole, sir, on this subject ; 
but give me rest and peace. Do not these breaking 
bones, and throbbing temples, and the long nights of 



36 Up-Countky Letters. 

weariness, tell me my sin sufficiently, I ask you ? Is 
there any one in tlie broad land who has more need to 
ask for God's deliverance " in all time of our tribulation, 
in all time of our prosperity, in the hour of death and in 
the day of judgment?" 

By the time we reach home, Kate, wTio goes to her 
church earher, and gets home by eleven o'clock, has 
wheeled out the little round table, and there is already 
the cheerfulness of dinner — a Sunday dinner — plain and 
unpretending — always to be partaken of with a modest 
temperance, to keep open eyes for the afternoon sermon. 
As we pass through my father's sitting-room — the front 
of the house beino: all barred and bolted — he asks the 
question, " Where's the text ?" And if some one cannot 
produce the text, he concludes we have been to church 
to very little purpose. 

I seldom get out in the afternoon. As seldom does 
my wife stay at home. Whether it rain or shine, or 
hail or snow, the performance must be veiy spirited if it 
keeps her from the afternoon service. My father and 
myself take our usual naps ; but not as long, if possible, 
on Sundays as on other days. About two o'clock we 
exchange papers. I give him some church paper ; for 
which, by the way, it is easy to see that he lias but 
small regard, and receive from him the New-York — 



Up-Country Sunday, 3^ 



. Its readable articles — and they are many — I 

find marked by liim Avitli red chalk, for my especial 
notice in part, and in part for the benefit of friends a 
long way off, to whom the paper is always sent, after it 
has been thoroughly exhausted at home. 

So goes away, with the richness and silentness of 
blessing, our Up-country Sunday ; and then comes 
twilight — of all its houre, the most serene and holy — 
and the day is gone. Up into Heaven, with the thousands 
which have gone before, it has ascended, and there sits 
in glory ! Beautiful day, thou hast gone home to God : 
to God and the angels, and the mighty hosts gathered 
in that blessed land. Gone up to sit in glory for ever I 
Beautiful day, farewell I 



V. 

Did you ever know a Monday, sir, that had not some- 
thing dashing in it ? something outre or ultra, elate and 
hopeful, or urgent and distracting ? 

Time was when Monday and I were excellent 
friends; when rising at the peep of day, I began the 
week with a shout. Now, I have made friends with 

calmness and self-possession. I say to Mrs. P ^ 

my dear wife, let us take life easily; joyful as you 
like, but gently, temperately. 

But this morning — the day being of that brilHant 
and flashy character common to Monday — as we were 
all sitting about the roimd table, the lady astonished me 
with a most extraordinary proposition. On a day so 
beautiful, that to live and breathe should have been her 
utmost wish (as it was mine), she desired — she and 



Monday Morning. 39 

Tidy — to drive down to tlie market-garden with my 
mare Jenny ! A mare, sir, which, though she has seen 
fifteen years, still insists upon rounding a corner like a 
whirlwind. They say she is so old and so gentle. 
Doubtless, she is high bred, she is gentleness itself, but 
— she has thrown me over her head more than forty 
times. I could point you now, sir, to the spots made 
memorable by those somersets. Beside, her nervous 
susceptibility (I do not call it timidity) is beyond their 
comprehension. By raising an umbrella before her, I can 
make her kneel before me and beg like a child. 

Well, sir, imagine two women (say girls rather) be- 
hind such a horse, and suppose they have a corner to 
round, and are not thinking of her way of doing it ; or 
suppose a trace slips off the hook going up hill — sup- 
pose a spring breaks — thunder and Mars, sir ! suppose 
Jenny herself gets a little flighty ? What would they 
do ? what could they do ? Why, sir, they would be 
utterly lost ; their wits would fly to the four winds. 

All this I submitted to them, but of what avail on 
a Monday morning? Talk to the north wind, but 
not to young girls bent upon a drive. Fortunately 
before the morning was quite ruined, Frank Bryars 
came in and oftered to drive them down. Frank is not 
strong, but he knows Jenny, and no one understands 



40 Up-Country Letters. 

better than youi-self, Professor, that a man who knows a 
horse can drive him with a tow-string. 

They returned in great glee, just as Kate was get- 
ting out the table for dinner, and the crowing was very 
spirited. They had got this and that ; had been here 
and there; and my wife had held the reins all the 
way. 

" Why," said she, " didn't you see me drive up the 
yard ?" " Oh, yes," I said ; " and if Johnny had not 
been there to stop the mare, she would have walked 
straight into the barn, wagon, women, and all" — which 
was the fact. 

But to return to the dinner ; not mutton, but lamb- 
choj)s, juicy and tender as a pheasant ; and for dessert, 
strawberries and cream — real cream, and strawberries 
picked this morning. 

Nothing more, you observe, to spoil the dinner, as 
meats of any other kind — pastries, puddings, and the 
like — which are bad enough at any time, but with 
lamb-chops and strawberries, would be an utter profana- 
tion. 

I mistake — there was an extra — a salad with a 
cream dressing. After dinner the dogs came in foi 
their bones, bursting with laughter and short barks. 

Tidy came out of her dream, and chatted s& 



Monday Morning. 41 

sharply, as thougli she had never had a dream in her 
life. Frank was in his best mood, and my wife, what 
with the fine morning and the jarring of the wagon, 
looked as brilliant as a sunrise in the mountains. It 
was the look of one who had held the reins ! 

Directly after dinner we went out on the west 
piazza : a spot well shaded with pines and maples, and 
climbing vines ; but not so dense as to be chilly, if the 
air happens to be lacking of that extreme warmth 
which, to invalids like Frank and myself, is so accepta- 
ble. Taking out easy chairs, we had the afternoon all 
before us. Birds were about in the branches, and the 
hum of noises going on in the meadows, and down by 
the river-side, was a complete music. 

I had that delightful feeling of weariness which a 
dinner not too heavy will sometimes give to an invalid ; 
and as it was my usual hour of napping, I began to 
recede from the actual world, and coast about on uncer- 
tain shores, coming back quite often to take a fresh start, 
and hear a word or two of the conversation. Rover, 
who imitates his master, and Pompey who imitates 
Rover, was spread out on his haunches, with his nose 
between his paws, now and then snapping indolently at 
flies and bumble-bees that floated that way. Frank 
stood leaning against the phmi-tree, in a place com- 



42 Up-Country Letters. 

manding a view of tlie meadow and river below — 
a favorite look-out of his ; while Tidy seated herself a 
little way apart, under a maple, and retired immedi- 
ately into one of her pleasant reveries ; waking occa- 
sionally with great earnestness to admire the plum-tree 
by the garden fence, which was now heavy with young 
fruit. 

" We should have been back sooner," said Frank, 
retuMiing to the piazza, " but I did not like to come by 
way of the Long House, and so we came around." I 
was nearly asleep, but remarked, with a good deal of 
emphasis, " Of course," and grasped again at my broken 
dream. 

" Do you know," he continued, " do you know. Tidy 
— I mean Mr. Pundison — do you know why I always 
dodge that house ? " and without waiting for an answer 
he went on ; " it was about ten years ago — " 

Again, I was nearly asleep ; but hearing the words 
" ten years ago," I took them up mentally for a private 
examination. To grasp the whole subject was too over- 
whelming. " Ten years," I said to myself ; " where was 
I ten years ago ? and where were you, sir ? and where 
was any body ten years ago ? Why, sir, the idea is 
preposterous ! Besides, you don't know the mare from 
Adam: she'll jostle you to pieces before you go ten 



Monday Morning. 43 

rods — that is, I mean, ten yeai-s — eh ? — no, ten rods — 
ten years, ten rods, ten years — ten — te — t — " 

Mr. Pundison was asleep. The Monday was too 
much for him. Good night, Professor. Z. P. 



VI. 

We slept : — Frank, the gentle people, the dogs, and my- 
self. The thermometer, also, having found a happy 
mark at about 80, stood still all through the golden 
hours. But the world went on all the same, until by 
and by the sun made a tangling pause in the top of the 
gi-eat pine by the road-side ; and, by that sign, it was 
five o'clock. - - 

I was lying in a leather-backed chair, on the piazza, 
with my feet raised, and facing the northwest, when I 
emerged slowly, and began to interest myself — my head 
hanging well back — with the beautiful effect of the sun- 
light in the tops of the maples, and what light it was, 
and whether they were maples, or not rather some 
kind of immortal growth — so beautiful they looked — in 
some better land. But, lowering my gaze, I soon came 



Monday Evening 



'ftf 



upon Frank Bryar's pale face, his hair floating about it, 
and himself fast asleep. Tidy was still under the maple, 
leaning back against it like a statue, and my wife, sitting 
in a little short-legged chair, by my side, was watching 
with a mischievous smile to see me come out of my 
dream. In-doors was a little clatter of tea-things, and 
presently a bell rang, and we all started up, and were 
seriously shocked at having napped to such an extent. 

We took our tea about the round table — a table 
which I have the habit of mentioning so often, because 
of its exceeding beauty. It is slightly oval, and stands 
upon a single stem, which, at bottom, branches out 
quadrupally upon four castors. It is of bl§.ck walnut, 
and has a certain happy look which distinguishes it at 
once fi'om all other tables. My wife thinks so much of 
it, it is always the first thing she looks at on entering 
the room. All the afternoon she will sit dividing her 
attention between some fancy work and the round table. 
It was said, last winter, that Rover cured himself of a 
bad scald he got in the kitchen by coming in and look- 
ing at the table ; and, I suppose, it is not to be doubted. 
One thing I witnessed myself, and can therefore vouch 
for, that Pompey got a bone in his throat by stopping 
to look at it — the table — while in the act of swalloVing. 
This was when we had had it but a few days, and every 



46»* Up-Country Letters. 

body was being enchanted witli it. I will add, here, 
that Pompey got the bone out of his throat by coming 
back and taking another look ! This, you know, is 
upon the principle of homoeopathy. 

As I said, we all took tea. No fancy cakes, you 
understand, or sweetmeats (distressing things) ; but 
sweet bread, and butter of pure gold, and a cup of black 
tea, sir, with cream ! A high cup, with thick walls. 
Only to look at such a cup of hot souchong is pleasant. 
Artistically and prospectively it is a happy thing ; but 
to imbibe— to make it a part of your curiously contrived 
nervous organization : — this, sir, is inspiration. 

I once asked, over the round table, " Wliat is the 
chief end of man?" My wife and Tidy making no 
response, and looking rather bewildered withal, I threw 
light upon the subject at once, by replying, " To drink 
black tea with cream !" 

After tea we had a wood fire kindled in the grate — 
the air outside now getting cool — and gathering about it 
while the light glimmered about the room, I called upon 
Frank to go on with his story of the " Long House." 
" It is not a story," said he, " but entirely a matter of 
fact, or, I assure you, I should not take the trouble to 
dodge that house so often as I do ; but, observe, it is 
but a plain statement of a plain transaction." 



Monday Evening. 47 

" Speak clear and distinct," said my father, who had 
now taken a seat with us ; " you have been to college, sir, 
and should know the importance of speaking clear and 
dis — tinctly." Frank bowed to my father, and con- 
tinued the story. " Louder^'' said my father, " and let 
each word be fairly articulated. This was the rule, sir, 
at Morris Academy, more than forty years ago." How 
this concerned Tidy is beyond conjecture ; but little 
confusions come upon her so strangely of late that I am 
tired of seeking for explanation. Frank continued — 

" Ai the time I speak of — when I was a mere lad — 
the Long House had been recently built, and should 
have been occupied by a good class of tenants ; but for 
some unaccountable reason, they were generally a pretty 
shabby set of people. 

" There were four tenements, but they were sub-let, 
and instead of four families only, there were sometimes 
eight or ten ; and as I had the collecting of the rents, I 
came in contact with nearly all of them ; but I will only 
speak of the one at the corner occupied by a man of 
the name of Smith, who appeared to me to be an 
established loafer. His rent was always behind, and I 
never had the fortune to discover that he had any em- 
ployment. I Avould find him usually hanging about the 
village, looldng rather pale and miserable, but as it 




ii 



48 Up-Country Letters. 

seemed to me, also intolerably lazy. I was full of 
blood then, and had no more patience with such char- 
acters than your father, sir, has now. But there was 
something about this man which prevented my being 
at all harsh with him, for he never gave an ill-tempered 
reply, but always was expecting to get some money 
from some quarter, and he did hope he should not be 
lisappointed in it. But it never came ; and now of late 
IS e was not so well as he had been, and it was difficult 
for him to get that kind of work which he could do. 
He was troubled, I think he said, with chills and fever, 
but said not so much about his ills as he did about his 
plans and expectations, still hoping to bring up the rent 
pretty soon. But at last, matters getting desperate, he 
suggested that he could give me a bill of sale of his 
cow ; a bill of sale was accordingly made out, and as 
the cow was worth some twenty dollars, it would cover 
the rent and leave a margin beside. On the whole I 
was rather satisfied with this arrangement; for the 
house, you observe, was not built exclusively for the 
comfort of its tenants, one especial object being that it 
should pay something back to the capitalist who built 
it. It was not my house ; but, if I did the business, I 
must do it in a business way. 

One bright sunny morning, after a long interval, 




Monday Evening. 49 

during which I had not called at the Long House, I 
thought I would look in and see if Smith was getting 
ready to take up the bill of sale. Knocking at his 
door, it was opened by his wife, a young woman, who 
would have been happy-looking, but for an expression 
of care and thoughtfulness, which is so common among 
married women of her class in life. But now I observed 
an unusual calmness in her features, as she replied to 
my question if her husband was at home, " Yes, walk 
in, sir," and stepping back into the room as I followed 
her, she pointed silently to the other side of the room. 
I was about to speak, when I was struck dumb at see- 
ing where she pointed, her husband lying at full length 
in his winding-sheet, I looked about for a moment, 
and sat down in a perfect maze ; none of us said a word. 
The dead man could not speak — neither could I — nor 
the wife. ' But now,' some voice suggested, ' is a very 
proper time, if you have any thing to say about that 
rent. He will not be harsh with you, Mr. Bryars — you 
can say what you like — you can do what you like now 
— he Avill make no objection. There is the cow, of 
which you have tlie bill of sale — you can drive her 
home if you like. I suppose the woman will have to 
starve herself to get a cofflafor her husband; but he will 
not know any thing about it ; for you see he is very still.' 
3 




50 Up-Countuy Letters. 

" Something like tliis seemed to be whispered there 
in the mimite that I staid, and the woman gave w^y and 
broke into tears and sobs that were more than I could 
witness. I stammered out something, and left the 
house, and I believe I have never darkened that door 
since." 

There was a pause as Frank finished his account of 
the matter, and I said, " What did you do for the avo- 
man ?" " Very little," said he. " I did what I could, 
gave up the bill of sale and the rent, of course, but I 
was not empowered to do any thing in such cases, and 
I had nothing myself. But think, sir, of calling for 
rent on a man in his winding-sheet !" 

At this moment my father rose from his seat, and 
struck into the tune of St. Martin's at the very top of 
his voice, walking up and down the room in his way, 
and gesticulating with extraordinary vehemence. We 
all joined in, and St. Martin's was repeated until it 
shook the rafters ; — so Kate said, who was up stairs at 
the time finishing her work. 

After St. Martin's, came one or two other old Con- 
necticut souvenirs, and we finished, as we do often, with 
" Denmark," and the Gl^ia Patri. " Good night," 
said Frank, as he started^^Phome — " that last tune is 
as good as a tonic. Good night, good night, Tidy." 




Monday Evening. 51 

But Tidy, wlio was looking out one of the south win- 
dows, made no rejjly. " Tidy, said I, " Frank is saying 
good night to you," " Yes, I know," said she — " Good 
night," and continued looking out into the dark. 

They are all gone now, and I am alone. But what 
was the meaning of those three round drops in her eyes ? 
Ah, my friend, if I had not moods of my own some- 
times, I should be a little provoked at these strange 
doings. Addio, Z. P. 



I 



I 



VII. 

f fee |«uMs0n |jjp. 

Have the kindness, Professor, to say to that person who 
rej)orte(i the contemiDtible stoiy about the Pundison 

dogs, that he is a slanderer and a ! Fill up that 

blank as you please : you can put nothing too bad in it. 
When any thing wicked is reported to me, I am in 
the habit of saying to my wife and Tidy — " Don't believe 
it : don't believe a word of it : wait until some professor 
has proved first, that it is possible, next, that it is proba- 
ble, — and lastly, that it is true. And as to ourselves, let 
us believe we have many right good friends whom we 
have never seen or heard of; and that here and there 
about the world, many and many a good word is being 
said about us that we never hear." In this pleasant 
faith, sir, we live, day by day, but that story about our 
dogs, — I will speak to that. 



The Pundison Doas. 53 

Perhaps it may be assumed tliat we know somc- 
tliing about those dogs : we raised them, as the phrase 
is, and their whole training has been under our own eyes. 
They are from the celebrated dog, Growli witch, now 
living a retired life on a farm over the river : a dog of 
gi-eat quickness of parts and the highest respectability. 
They were brought uj) in a sugar-box, near the barn, 
and their habits carefully looked into, — day by day. If 
they have ever turned fi'om a fight, as in younger days 
they may have done, their quickness, now, in snuffing 
up any possible enemy is positively wonderful. I have 
a faint recollection of seeing Eover on the jump through 
the pasture with the old cow behind, — her tail high in 
the air, — but, sir, the cow was in a fury, and he was a 
puppy. Now, not a pin drops on the piazza but they 
give the alarm. So in their naps they are continuaUy 
gi'owling, being always engaged, you see, with the 
enemy. 

Rover, in his puppyhood, had a habit of jumping 
through the window-glass in my father's room, landing 
on the south piazza, with his mouth full of barks, and 
caring nothing for bruises and cuts : — ^his only thought, 
— the enemy. The size of the glass (10 x 12), gives 
you the size of the dog. Then imagine the half of 
Rover, and you have Pompey. "Whatever Rover does, 



I 



I 



54 Up-Country Letters. 

Pompey will do as far as he can ; but tlieir tempers are 
something diverse. The one, all exuberance and a 
hearty good-nature, laughing loudly upon the smallest 
pretext : the other shy and of a highly nervous organi- 
zation. Rover is black and white, with feet like the feet 
of a leopard, and he steps as though he was proud of 
them. Pompey is of a rich gold color, and goes about 
rather daintily. 

Every hot day we give them a plunging bath in a 
barrel of cold water. Strange to say, they don't like it ; 
their impression evidently being that they are then ap- 
proaching the climax of events. Escajjing from their 
bath, it is Rover's way, exhausted and dripping as he is, 
and undecided whether to laugh or cry, — to cogitate 
upon the matter for about a minute under the big cedar 
then — exercise being the rule after a bath — he begins 
with a little trot and flourish about the yard, and at last 
disappears up the great north road at the top of his 
speed. He is gone for an hour or two in the up-country, 
and on his return it is always noticeable that he carries 
his tail very high, and laughs immoderately. His un- 
consciousness of the morning afi"air is very rich. Let it 
go now, he says, and say no more about it. But 
Pompey says nothing of the kind. He begins and ends 
the whole proceeding with continual barks and scratches. 



The Pundison Dogs. 55 

He dies, or thinks he dies, at least five times before it is 
over : then gives himself a shake and starts on a race 
about the meadow, down and across, sideways and all 
ways : squares, circles and rhomboids, yelping and tum- 
bling in the grass over and over, and still yelping, with 
his tail straight out like a scared colt. This, for a full 
half hour, after which he takes a nap in the grass, with 
one eye open, never forgetting the bath. It must be a 
tempting bone that will bring him nearer than the 
meadow fence for the rest of the day. 

I have been at the trouble to tell you all this, sir, 
that you may see what slight grounds are sufficient for 
those who have the heart to build to themselves monu- 
ments of their own malice. Cowhide that — person — 
Professor, the first opportunity: or, if you choose to 
bring an action for slander, I will stand by you to the 
last dollar. 

One thing more : — It has been said that although 
Growliwitch continues to have puppies, she has never 
produced any such happy specimens as these firstlings, 
and therefore — and so forth and so forth. 

Oh the judgments of this wicked world ! Because 
my neighbor sins shockingly, therefore my virtue is good 
for nothing. The appeai-ance of a good character, — 
proof of the contrary : in other words, all goodness is a 



I 



56 Up -Country Letters. 

sliam and a pretension, and tlie devil the only honest 
and plain spoken character. What a world it is ! 

Sir, who ever heard of a whole family of illustrious 
men ? There are families of blackguards, but you will 
observe here, also, that some one will strike out and be a 
gentleman. Nature is always trying to restore herself: 
she is mostly in a bad way, but spares no efforts to come 
up. 

Sometimes, after such efforts, the results are brilliant 
to a high degree, — and such, sir, are the Pundison 
Dogs. Yours, Z. P. 



I 



VIII. 

Up-Country, June, 1850. 

Our days roll so smoothly, sir, that we have not much 
incident to report. A walk with the dogs : a news- 
paper in the hammock : a nap on the piazza, followed 
by black tea with cream — and the day is gone. Occa- 
sional ripples on this smooth flow of time are our only 
outside recreations. 

I was this morning looking through the open win- 
dow at the bobolinks balancing on the long grass in 
tlie meadows, and into (like-beautiful things) the deep 
mosses of Hawthorne, when I heard my name called 
from an upper window. It was my wife. 

" Zariar," said the voice. (Zariar is soft for Zacha- 

riah, as T. is for Thankful.) " Zariar ! ^Ir. Pundison !" 

'' Eh ! what ! " said I. " Do you know we are to go 

to Frank Bryars' to tea to-night 1" " Yes," I replied ; 

3* 



I 



58 Up-Country Letters. 

" and what more ?" " Nothing — only don't walk off 
and forget all about it." 

Directly after this, I heard her voice winding in low 
tones through the morning chant, stopping for a moment 
to adjust something in the room, and then going on 
again, up and down and all about through the sweet 
music, like the talk of a brook heard in the pauses of 
the wind, or like the bobolink balancing and singing a 
little song — then down in the grass to chatter and 
dig about, and up again for another mouthful of 
praise. 

I turned to Mr. Hawthorne, and read the same page 
up and down six times without taking a thought. " I 
wonder now — (I was talking to myself) — " I wonder if 
I do wander away in that fashion ? Have we got in 
that dilapidated condition, Mr. Pundison, that we do not 
really know whether we are in the body or out of the 
body ?" And I mused for a little space, arguing the 
point : presently a neuralgic shock decided that we were 
in the body. " But are we a little distrait, sometimes ? 
Is it the fact ? Is it probable — say, rather, is it possible ? 
Ah, well — Tidy vnll know — we will ask Tidy." 

The dogs would have been on my side — they would 
have taken oath that I was entirely regular ; but in the 
uncertainty, I staid under the maples all the morning, 



Drive to the Bryars'. 69 

venturing about cautiously, lest my vagrant habits might 
be plotting to win me away. 

At last the sun began to slant about among the 
trees, and sprawl the shadows in such a large way that 
Ave began to think of starting for the Bryars'. The 
women had been waiting for it to be time to go, and 
now they had waited rather too long, and it was getting 
late. 

But John was soon ready with the mare, and piling 
into the lumber wagon as well as we could we rattled 
off. At the very start, my left leg received such a shock, 
that it shook out an old neuralgic twist which had been 
asleep there for months ; but there was no use in growl- 
ing when the wagon made such a racket : nobody 
would hear it. But the drive w'as short. We soon 
came in sight of Frank's house standing on the hill, far 
back, and Avith a row of pojilars going u]) the yard and 
before the house itself, and other old forest trees, burying 
it in deep shadow. 

The mare was noAV going like a streak ; for any 
thing that rattles, always starts her ; and, besides, John 
knows nothing about driving her, although I have trained 
him thoroughly, again and again. As it was, the boy could 
not stop her ; and so, instead of drawing up gracefully 
before the front door, where Frank and Fanny stood 



60 Up-Country Lettjeus. 

ready to receive us, we flew past on swift wings, and 
only broug-lit up in tlie extreme recesses of the back 
yard. 

It was the opinion of all — (for the beast is afraid of 
me as death) — it was the opinion of all, that if I had 
not seized the reins and said, Whoh ! just as I did, she 
wc '.lid have cleared the fence, and taken us all over into 
the orchard. 

We got out on the wood-pile and took breath, while 
Frank came inquiring what we were doing out there in 
the lots. Apart from that screeching shoot through the 
left log, I was entirely cool ; but my wife, I observed, 
had put on a very fresh color, and Tidy, for one who 
dreams so much, was quite dewy and sparkling. 

You see John cannot or will not understand that the 
mare must be driven gently at the start, and then she 
will go gently all the way : but touching her with a 
whip is downright madness. 

We entered the house by the kitchen and the middle 
room ; and so into the front parlor. Just up by the cham- 
ber windows the blackbirds had gathered in the poplai's, 
and were singing with the greatest vociferation ; groups 
of them flying every moment down to the river banks, 
and then returning shortly to their nests in the poplars. 
Presently we went in to tea, in the back parlor ; one of 



Drive to the Bryars'. 61 

those enchanting rooms which you fall in love with at 
sight. We Avere still within the sunset which came 
blazing past the house in crimson and gold, and flying 
across the river and valley (where the village, more than 
a mile distant, was lying cool and shadowy), marked 
itself brightly, and with the sharpest colors, on the oppo- 
site hill-side. 

We sat down to our tea, and euch was the charm 
of the room and the scene altogether, that although it 
all faded away presently, and the lights were brought 
in, we still sat about the table until we all rose to come 
home. The lady-chatter at the tea was incessant : great 
arrearages of up-country gossip were brought up and 
discussed, and finished. After the table was cleared, 
some one brought Frank a cigar, when my wife said to 
him, " I beg, Mr. Bryars, you will not tell any more of 
your horrid stories. I dreamed of that Long House all 
night." But Frank Avas not to be put off. He Avas 
beset to have another talk. " That story," said he, look- 
ing at Tidy in a kind of solemn abstraction, " Avas rather 
remarkable ; but, after all, the man had a home, such 
as it was, to die in ; and I take it, that is some com- 
fort." 

Turmng to me, he continued : " Did you ever knoAv 
old Doctor . He must have lived a little before 



62 Up-Country Letters. 

your time, but of course you have heard of him ; but 
neither you, nor any one, knew him as I knew him. 
He died Avithout a home ; at least liis home was such, 
that he left it evidently for the purj)ose of dying away 
from it. The Doctor, as you will remember, was a very 
large man, at least six feet high, and with a head and 
face in full proportion for such a frame. As is not 
unusual with large men, there was a look of extreme 
kindness in every feature of his fair face, and he inclined 
slightly to baldness. His head and face might without 
caricatm-e, be said to be magnificent, and this also 
might be said of the whole man, for such he was. 
"Why he should be so shy and diffident, however, 
seemed very strange. 

" There was so much sickness in our family in those 
days, that' I soon got thoroughly acquainted with him. 
I almost invariably drove down for him, when he was 
wanted, and this was always two or three times a week. 
In this way, we got to know each other, although we 
said but little. Day after day we drove about together 
with scarcely a word between us; but the most com- 
monplace remark from the Doctor, accompanied by 
one of his looks was equal to a volume in meaning. 

" I used to sit waiting for him in the carriage by the 
hour, and sometimes would have to drive him about 



Drive to the Bryars'. 63 

town before he could start. The world in those days 
was all before me, and nothing suited me better than 
this idle kind of life. Of course it pleased the Doctor 
immensely to have one who was not wonying him to 
death with alarming stories of patients at the point of 
death, and so forth ; and as he always had some private 
gi-ief in hand (told, however, in so gentle a way that 
you could only smile at it), I generally had the fii-st 
hearing. Sometimes it was some precious scandal, 
which somebody had got up about him in the village, 
but oftener some personal ill, as a back-ache, or a rheu- 
matic touch, which would cause him to put on a face 
of the highest individuality. "When he came on horse- 
back, as he sometimes would, on fine summer days, it 
was amusing to see him come up the yard, leading his 
horse, with one hand on his lame back, to indicate the 
locale, for the time, of his private grief; and not seldom, 
he would stop half-way up the yard and be feeling in 
his pockets, where some luckless vial, fi'om too great 
pressure, had broken in pieces. ' Sure !' he would say, 
pulling out his hand, red with some high-colored drug, 
' I have broken that tincture all to smash.' 

" At such times, I have sat down before him and 
laughed till I cried, but he never seemed in the shght- 
est degree offended with any thing I did. Giving me 



G4 Up-Country Letters. 

one of his looks, he would perhaps ask, ' How is your 
digestion ?' and then laughing himself most immoderately, 
his face would directly become calm and sedate again. 
Professionally, I suppose, he was one of the best read 
men in the state, and his untiring kindness and perse- 
verance in cases even of small importance, was most 
remarkable. Day after day, and night after night, he 
would be about his patients, and still the same kind 
face and unflagging attention to them. His inquiries 
were thousand-fold ; and if you answered correctly, it 
was very strange if he did not ferret out the trouble. 
Whether he knew how much humor he carried about 
in his looks and actions is perhaps doubtful. I remem- 
ber, it was the one puzzling thing, which I could not 
quite determine. I think, however, he had a remote 
idea of it. 

" But I am making a long story. The old Doctor 
at last got poorly — we called him old, though he was 
in the full j^rime of life. There was no great change in 
his appearance, but it was evident that he was getting 
feeble, and he would sometimes drop a Avord or two, in- 
timating that he did not expect to practise much more : 
he had his troubles also, but of those I shall not venture 
to speak : I will only say that the Doctor found himself 
quite lonely in the world. Foreseeing his death a few 



Drive to the Bryars'. 65 

weeks before it took place, he went up to a little hamlet 
by the river side, about six miles out of town, and, — 
as I believe, — with a determination to die there : — I 
went up to see him ^vhile he was there, with the hope of 
getting him to prescribe for a little girl then very poorly, 
and also to persuade him to come and take my room 
and make his home with us. But it was all of no avail : 
— ' The little girl will outlive me,' — said he, — ' and at 
your house I should have the whole village about me : 
Have you heard the stories they are getting up about 
me ? Ah, well, let them talk.' 

" Not a week from this, word came to me, then some 
distance from home, that the Doctor had failed rapidly, 
and been brought back to the village, and was thought 
to be dying. I hurried home, but arrived only in time 
to see him buided : even then he had not been taken to 
any room in the village that was familiar to him, but 
was left at a strange house. I only mention this, how- 
ever, as an incident of his death, for they were very kind 
people. 

" The funeral was at the church, and never before or 
since, has that solemn service seemed so solemn as at 
that time. In fact I never had thought of it : perhaps 
never had heard it before. I was standing with the con- 
gregation when the clergyman entered the church, but 



66 Up-Country Letters. 

as his voice rose clear and distinct, with those words : 
* I am the resurrection and the Ufe,' — the whole house 
reeled with me, and I dropped into a seat and cried Uke 
a child. 

" All the rest of the service, but more especially the 
singing, only added to my intense excitement, and I re- 
member very well that I did not recover myself during 
that day. 

"After the service, I joined in the procession, and in a 
beautiful spot, just a little out of the village, we laid the 
old Doctor away : and this was the man," said Frank 
" who had no home in which to die." 

As my friend finished his talk about the Doctor, 
Johnny was reported, with the mare and a lantern to 
guide us home. Frank offered his services, which Tidy 
took upon herself to decline, and with some spirit ; again 
he insisted and again she wholly declined. I looked 
about to see what was the occasion of so much em- 
phasis, but with no success. 

It was very dark. Heavy clouds were floating slowly 
about, and streaks of moonlight gleaming only here and 
there at long intervals. I drove the mare myself, and 
it would have done your heart good, sir, to see the 
beast pick her way so carefully — just as she used to do 
years ago, when I drove so often at midnight through 



Drive to the Bryaus'. 67 

the deep pine-woods, down in that rough river countiy, 
where I worked out the best of my days. Time and- 
again in those nights, when I could not even see Jenny 
herself, I would drop the reins loosely upon her back, 
and let her pick her way through the darkness. 

Always she brought me out safe, and always of her 
own accord going with the extremest care in places 
which she knew to be very perilous. 

In the same way she now threw her short, pointed 
ears forward and back, as much as to say — " The difB- 
culties are amazing, but never fear : I know the way." 
Johnny went ahead with the lantern — a great annoy- 
ance, unless it is pitch dark. 

Soon we came within hearing of the dogs. We said 
but little, being all (myself by no means excepted) very 
much impressed with Frank's reminiscence of the old 
Doctor. 

As we drove slowly up the yard, my father came 
to the south door, with a lighted candle in his hand, 
shouting. Who's there ?" and crazing the dogs with the 
pleasant fiction that they were engaged with the enemy. 
It ended with their jumping in and out of the wagon 
and all over every body before any one could alight 
Pompey, however, whose caution is large, continued at 
a distance with an incessant yelp, until all possible doubt 
was removed. 



68 Up-Country Letters. 

After this long, long talk, sir, upon tliese trifles, the 
day is done, and with it closes the week. 
It is Saturday night again. 

Addio, Z. P. 



IX. 



& 



Another Sunday — the glad day of the week — has come 
to us — made its bn'ght path in the sky, and passed over 
to other lands. It is almost midnight : the breath of 
the week-days, like the chill of the early dawn, is not 
yet felt. I shall sleep over into the bustling to-mon-ow 
witli wet eyes, and a throbbing but joyful pulse. 

Years ago it was our custom on this night to gather 
here, or at Rambleton House, and sing our old Connecti- 
cut hymns. !My father always took the lead, walking the 
room back and forth, and gesticulating, sometimes in 
rather an extraordinary manner. The occasion was one 
of solemnity, but mainly it was a time of praise and 
thanksgiving. 

We formed, at this time, a large circle ; and it re- 



70 Up-Country Letters. 

quired a strong and powerful leader, like my father, to 
keep us in control. Sometimes that office was assigned 
to me ; but in such case, we always failed in reaching 
that grand movement which my father commanded. 

After such a failure, my father would rise from his 
seat, look round upon us with a smile, and dash into the 
same tune with great force and emphasis : after which 
he would seat himself, and remark, in a modest way, that 
he had sung that tune " more than forty years ago :" 
Had learned it, perhaps, on Litchfield Hill ; and the first 
time it was ever sung was at such an ordination, — and 
was composed by such a one, expressly for that purpose. 
As to myself, I had been thoroughly trained by my 
father, years ago, for hours at a time, on rainy mornings, 
in the most difl[icult tunes he could select : each taking 
a different part, and my father dashing through his with 
great spirit and precision. Pausing occasionally, he 

would explain to me how Mr. W — th, or Mr. , or 

the celebrated Mr. D — ^bble, sang the same. At these 
times, we sang, also, old anthems, now long since laid 
away (except now and then that we raise them, as it 
were, from the dead) : such as " I beheld, and lo ! " 
(from Haydn's Creation,) "The Heavens are telling," 
&c. 

On the Sunday night meeting's of which I was 



Sunday Night. 11 

speaking, we usually sang "Denmark," towards the 
close ; and for tlie last, a piece composed, or rather col- 
lected, by my father, from the closing passages of four 
diflferent anthems — one by Dr. Madan, from the " Lock 
Hospital," and the othei-s by eminent composers. The 
words were — 

To our Almighty King 

Wonder and praise — wonder and praise belong. 

Praise him above, ye heavenly hosts, 
Praise Father, Son, and Holy Ghost. 

Thine all the glory, man's the boundless bliss. 

Shining in immortal bloom 1 

These passages being very fine, we were all fiimiliar 
with them, and sang them with great power. They 
formed, altogether, a very grand Doxology ; after sing- 
ing which, it was my father's custom, with some abrupt- 
ness, to say " Good night," and immediately retire. 

Tliis was years ago. We meet now — those of us 
who are left — ^but more rarely. AVe sing the same 
songs ; but we are not all here. Some have faded away, 
and others are scattered about the land. Shall we ever 
meet asrain to sing those old tunes ? Not here. We 



72 Up-Country Letters. 

can Lave but an echo of those days now. But we may 
meet — all meet — in a better home. (May our Father 
in Heaven grant that this be so.) We may all meet 
there and sing them again, with the Hosts of Heaven — 
with the "thousands and thousands, and ten times 
thousands," who surround the throne of the Lamb, and 
cease not day nor night, saying, " Holy, holy, holy, Lord 
God Almighty, which was, and is, and is to come." 

All gathered at one hearth — father, and mother, 
and sisters, and brothers — to walk in white robes — to 
sing there the song of the Redeemed in Glory ! Oh, 
my Father and my God, will this be so ? All — all 
gathered in that happy home ! Will it be so ? 

I have been, to-night, in one of my gad but joyous 
moods : silent and bewildered : the images of old 
fi-iends and old times about me. It is not long since 
ray voice was strong and firm. It is so now ; but in 
this strange humor — this indomitable wilfulness of the 
heart — I have no power over it. I can but sit, speech- 
less, and look up with a trembling hope to the kind 
Heaven which is over all. 

I was sitting, to-night, leaned back in my chair, 
while T. sat by the hearth, gazing silently upon the 
dying embers, Avhen my fether came in, and without 
speaking to us, began walking slowly across the room. 



Sunday Night, IB 

Presently, he began an old anthem, in a low tone, his 
voice — a very unusual thing — trembling, and at times 
almost failing him, while he walked slowly back and 
forth. The words, as well as I remember them, were 
" Farewell, farewell, my friends, and God grant that we 
may meet again, where trouble shall cease and harmony 
abound." As he finished singing, he turned to me and 
asked what old piece it was. " Strange," he said, " that 
I should think of it now. I do not remember of singing 
it in more than forty years. It must be one of the old 
pieces we used to sing on Litchfield Hill ;" and again he 
repeated it, slowly, and as if searching carefully for the 
old tones so long buried — " Farewell, farewell, my 
fi-iends ! " 

He retired soon after, but pi'esently returned, with a 
black leather-covered book (Songs of the Temjyle, 
1819), took a seat by the table, by the side of my wife, 
and opening the book carefully, turned to an old tune 
not at all familiar to me, but of a soft and plaintive 
strain. It was very simple in tone, but exceedingly 
difficult in construction. My father sang it through 
once by himself, and then asked us to sing it with him. 
I was in that foolish condition I have mentioned — my 
eyes troubled with tears — and could make no reply. I 
was, in fact, pretending to sleep. ^ly father looked at 
4 



74 Up-Country Letters. 

me a moment, over his glasses, but said no more, and 
began singing again : my wife joining with him. These 
are the words : — 

Tis finished, so the Saviour cried, 
And meekly bowed his head and died : 
'Tis finished — yes — the race is run ; 
The battle's fought — the victory won ! 

They sang it again and again, with the same words. 
My wife has a sweet voice, and they both sang in low 
and subdued tones ; my father using but little of his 
usual gesticulation, only raising and lowering his hands 
slowly, as in prayer. Once at the close of the verse, he 
looked at T, with a smile, and remarked, gently, that 
she did not quite touch a certain note. " But," said he, 
in the same low tone, " it is very intricate." Again and 
again, they repeated it, and the words still throb at my 
heart — 

The battle's fought — the victory won ! 

At length my father rose, bowed, without speaking, 
and retired. T. caiiie and sat by me, silently, for a few 
moments, and went up to her rest. 

And now the midnight has come, my Mend, and 
Sunday night is over. I must go now. But I shall 



Sunday Night. YS 

still see that picture of youth and age bending over the 
old book — the calm and prayeiiul face of T. and the 
grave but rapt look of my father — I shall still hear, in 
the morning watch, those sweet sad tones, and those 
glorious words : — 

Ti3 finished — yes — the race is run : 
The battle fought — the victory won ! 

Addio. Z. P. 



X. 



JfnmL 

Your conjecture is right: my friend Frank is the 
same — changed by years and illness — older and wiser 
perhaps : and you are that Professor whom he met at 
the famous city of one house on the St. John's, where, 
so long ago, you ate strawberries together. Other years 
afterward, I also stopped at the same place with Father 
Williams, and ate strawberries from the same bed. 

When you knew him, he was coasting about in 
search of health, which had escaped him ; and all about 
the world he has not found it again. He will not find 
it here. In this contrivance of flesh and blood by which 
we manage to live, he will not find it. He must look 
further. And this is Frank's opinion. 

This world — I have heard him say — is well enough 
for a beginning. It is not imperative that life, here, 



Frank. 11 

should be a failure: not quite. Something may bo 
done : as much as God designed, — but to live on so, — 
Oh my dear Pun, would it not be ludicrous ? say rather 
would it not be madness ? 

You observe from this, that he is by no means elated 
with the present state of things. He does not care for a 
long residence in it : and this is why he Uves. In any 
other mood, he would die to-morrow. Over-anxiety, 
whether to live or die, would close the story. 

The beautiful things which turn up here and there 
find a warm welcome with him ; but this early fore- 
thought, looking forward to the end, has taken from life 
the peculiar charm, which is so tempting to the world at 
large. Of course he never plans or builds up future 
possibilities : more often he amuses himself with the im- 
portant hurry and bustle of the world. 

" There is a man," he will say, speaking of some one 
who is constantly building and planning for future 
years, — " the surprise to that man when he comes to die 
will not be so much that he is dead, as that he cannot 
go right on with the matter he had in hand. But what 
will be his consternation at that ! so petty, so annojong, 
such a monstrous impertinence ! — ' what is all this,' — 
he will say : and doubtless it will be, — what is all 
this?" 



78 Up-Country Letters. 

It is perhaps safe to say that Frank is a happy and 
cheerful-hearted man ; — ^but to the great world he is the 
veriest vagabone. Money is nothing to hini: books 
only and friends, are something ; the birds, the sunlight 
and the sweet south wind; moonlight, the summer 
showers, and lightnings, and all beautiful things : — these 
are something, and he never suffers them to pass without 
ministering to him. Is it so with youi- men of business, 
and care and infinite botherations, moneyed or political, 
or whatsoever ? 

Frank has his times, however, of making faces, and 
one of his luxuries, as he used to say to me, is in growling ; 
a good rich growl being equal to a bite out of a sour 
apple. But of late he begins to tire, even of growling. 

I have concluded — he says — to let my ailings take 
care of themselves — for what return do I get ? Have I 
not grumbled about, for years, and tossed and tumbled of 
nights, and looked long for the morning, and then tossed 
and tumbled again — and of what use, I ask you. Have 
I not wished even for that long deep sleep, — to lie down 
in that sweet oblivion, to wake no more to aches and pains 
and these small frettings of life. Have I not bathed 
and bothered sufficiently, I beg to know ? I say I have. 
I think that I have. As Mr. Webster would say, — I do 
suppose that I have. And now, if the leg will ache, let 



Frank. 70 

it: and if the head will get cloudy, and the old bones 
crumble and fall, — let them ! But I cannot stop to 
bother any more with such small nonsense. Life is too 
short to be detained with these impertinences. Let the 
leg and the head see to their own affiiii-s : — what is it all 
to me who have something to do yet, and will do it, God 
willing, though the stars faU firom the heavens. 

In such mood, perhaps, you ate strawberries together 
and shot at alligators, years ago, on the St. John's. 

Such, at least, is Frank Bryars, now, in this glorious 
summer of 1850. Yours, Z. P. 



XI. 

July, 1850. 

We have now fairly entered upon our up-country sum- 
mer, and, as we tliink, with the happiest success. All 
the long day — like Lamb's "roast pig" — is enjoyable 
throughout ; and we by no means refuse the night. A 
glorious summer ! 

A little while since, I was lying in the hammock be- 
tween the maples, when my wife and Tidy burst upon 
me with great spirit, on their return from prayers at the 
parish church. " Such times !" said T., coming up the 
yard very quickly, with great brilliance of color, and em- 
phasizing through the aii' with her right fore-finger, — 
" Such times ! — what do you think ? there was no one 
there to ring the bell, and so I thought I wovild do it my- 
self ; for it was more than five minutes past the time : 
but just as I had got it in a good ring, the rope cauglit 



T. AND THE Rector. 81 

somewhere, and took a flourish, and I could not make a 
single sound. Well : what could be done, — it was then 
ten minutes after church time. So the Rector had to 
go up and toll the bell himself, and there the people were 
coming in, and he up in the belfry, with his surplice on, 
tolling the bell by hand ! But that isn't all." — 

" Wait a moment," said I. " Lie down here, both of 
you, side by side, and take breath, or I shall have to run 
for brandy and lavender." 

After being well disposed in the hammock, and T. 
had arranged her right arm, so that she could give the 
requisite force to her remarks, I permitted her to go on. 
" But keep cool," said I, giving the hammock a gentle 
swing — " and now proceed." " Why," said the lady, 
" there was nobody there to sing ; and of course" — speak- 
ing with a good deal of solemnity, — " it was impossible 
to omit it, and so I rose and set the tune myself ; and we 
got on very well, tiU just in the middle of the verse, I 
found the tune did not fit the metre." 

" And what did you do then ?"— said I. " Oh"— said 
she ; making a very severe gesture, — " it was dreadful ! 
but I only stopped, and thought for a moment, and then 
went on again with another ; and what is more," she 
continued, with an air of triumph, " they all joined in, 
and we sang it delightfully." 
4* 



82 Up-Country Letters. 

"And what is more," said I, "you have made your- 
selves sharp for dinner: and what did Tidy do?" 
" Why, she sang with me, of course, or I should never 
have got through." 

" And where was Frank ?" I continued. 

"He was not there," said Tidy, and springing fi-om 
the hammock, she stepped quickly to the hall door and 
disappeared. 

"T,," said I, quietly, "did you observe that?" 
"Wliat!" said she, Avith some alarm. 

" Did you observe Tidy's manner, when I spoke of 
Frank ?" 

" Oh that was nothing " — said T. — " You don't mean 

to say" 

" Yes," said I, " I do mean to say" 

My wife rose from the hammock, and said with great 
deliberation, " My dear husband it is impossible : there 
it nothing in it. Frank admires her very much ; that is 
very evident, and he may have his thoughts, — but Tidy, 
the dear child, tells me every motion of her heart. 
Oh, no : not at all !" and having disposed for ever of 
this matter, she remarked a little upon the state of the 
parish, and retired. 

"Well:" thought I to myself, taking the vacant 
hammock, " we do not all see alike. My gentle people 



T. AND THE Rector. 83 

liave their ways, and I have mine ; and those two birds 
building their nests in the vine between the piazza col- 
umns, have theirs ; and there is a lesson there of more 
worth than many conjectures." 

In any case the day is beautiful. 

Addio, Z. P. 



XII. 



Up-Counti-y, July 3d, 1850 
RIorcing 



It is almost midsummer, my friend, and what kind of a 
day do yon suppose we liavc — wliat kind of a morning ? 
I give you the facts. Thermometer 63o — a sour cold 
wind blustering about (doubtless from the east), and the 
sky heavy and sad as November. 

How must the hearts of the little people already be 
trembling, lest to-morrow, the great day, should be even 
like unto this : what a national calamity would that be ! 
It has been arranged, not without much discussion, by 
the Rector and his people, that the parish children of the 
school and Sunday school, should celebrate the day in 
otu" grove. Accordingly, my father had the grass cut 
there yesterday, and it is lying in swathes all about under 
the trees, and only this rheumatic wind to cure it : — but 
great changes may come about before to-morrow. Mean- 



Midsummer. 85 

time, however, I am sitting by a fire, and have small in- 
clination for out-door affairs. Yesterday we had men 
pounding about on the top of the house, fixing for the 
thimder and lightning. 

At every Httle distance they stick a point out, and so 
bristling is the whole aftair, I expect we shall be struck 
all of a heap the very first storm that we have : so many, 
and so pointed, are the invitations. 

Did you hear of the young man who was in the 
habit of sitting by an ojien window, in thunder-storms, 
and watching the lightning playing down the rod close 
by ? It was not I. 

I have not written for a day or two, having been 
more pleasantly occupied in the society of our fiiends 
lately arrived from below. Their coming has been an 
event not soon to be forgotten, but the an-ival of the baby 
with them, has been the chief feature in the case : be- 
cause this baby, be it observed, is not an every-day baby. 
You know how apt babies are, to be remarkable, — but, 
hii-, perhaps you never saw a baby like this : — I presume 
to say, you never did. Tliat it is fair and round-faced, 
and has a forehead like Daniel Webster's : that it never 
cries : that it is always "jolly," so to speak : — these 
things are something, but what I have to add, is the 
penetrating sagacity with which it selects out one par- 



86 Up-Country Letters. 

ticular person, and wherever tliat person may go — up, 
down, or sideways — there follow the baby's eyes with the 
pertinacity of a magnet. And who do you suppose is 
that individual ? — The father ? the mother ? or my wife ? 
or Tidy ? or grandfather ? No ! sir — 1 am that indi- 
vidual ! You will ask, perhaps, if I am all the time dand- 
ling it : Never had the baby in my arms but once in my 
life, and then, — but as I was saying, there is no doubt it 
will be an extraordinary child. I have already told the 
mother to seize the first opportunity, of its being able to 
handle things — to present to it a brush and a pen : one 
or the other it will grasp and use immediately with the 
gi'eatest delight, and I prophesy it will take the pen, and 
if the first thing it does is to put that pen in its mouth, 
it will, in my opinion, show its preference in an undoubt- 
ed manner : it will be a sign : as the gentle-peoj)le say. 
Au revoir, Professor : I have to-day all the house 
upon my hands. Yours, Z. P. 



XIII. 



Up-Coantry, July 3d— Evening, 

The cool morning ran rapidly up into a hot noon, and 
the hot noon bred the lightning, and we have had a 
waking-up all over these borders, with rain in torrents, 
such as has not been seen for many days. All over the 
black sky flew the red lightning, brilliant, wavy and zig- 
zag, and close behind followed the big thunder : rain, 
hail, and the great winds northwesterly, and the thun- 
ders and lightnings, — they all came down together. The 
Shag-bark, high and furious before, now roared by, dash- 
ing itself in foam and spray, and under all, you heard 
the deep low shock of the falls tumbling down the hills 
from the great Passamaquoddy. 

Now was the time for our new lightning conductor 
to be in its element. No doubt it behaved itself bravely, 
catching up the winged thunder as it flew down within 



88 Up-Country Letters. 

reach of its spider arms, and so silently and swiftly car- 
rying it home again to mother eailh. How it must 
have hissed and sputtered, with the white lightning and 
the rain both pouring down together ! How its points 
must have bristled and snapped ! The next storm that 
comes, I shall seat myself at a safe distance in the garden, 
under an umbrella, and watch the proceedings through 
an opera glass. 

Did I tell you that the storm lasted till near mid- 
night ? Kate and Ann, poor things, put up blankets 
and counterpanes to keep out the sharp eyes of the light- 
ning, and even the baby cried out at one very sharp 
flash. 

In the very thick of the commotion, and when it 
was maddest, my father came striding through the 
rooms, singing a fragment of an old war-time song : — 

The fifteenth of October 

The year of eighty-one : 
Cornwallis, he surrendered 

To General Washington : 

Don't you see the bomb-shells flying 1 

The cannon loud do roar : 
De Grasse is in the harbor 

And Washington's on shore ! 



The Storm. 89 

You see, sir, tliat we can do some things even in this 
high latitude. — Don't suppose that you have all the 
thunder and lightning. 

When are you coming up ? If you don't come, 
write and say all manner of things. 

Yours, Z. P. 



XIV. 

Iranli m\)i SJr, |. h^ t\t B\m-'§mh 

"VVe went down on tlie river-bank, this afternoon : 
Frank, with his cigar, and Mr. Pundison with the un- 
disturbed memory of a happy dinner. 

It is pleasant, sir, to escape fi-om this inevitable /. 
Let us say we, as often as may be convenient. For we, 
thou, he, she, or it, are always better — are they not — 
than whatever I ? Doubtless : and this is why it is 
pleasant to ride, walk, play at wicket, or mingle in city 
crowds : so, to escape this intense personality, this per- 
petual introversion ; and see other things than I : to 
meet thou, her, and him, and the great wide-armed 
world of nature, sunshine, and clouds, and the sightless 
winds, waters, and grasses, and the young flowers. 

Something like this, as we walked down, I remarked, 
also, to Frank. 



Frank and Mr. Pundison. 91 

" All which," said Frank, " is very well. In town, 
however, where the second and third persons number 
hundreds of thousands, are we more modest ? Are we 
crushed with the sense of other existences ? Do we not 
rather return, always, from mingling with the great 
crowd, with a still heartier lildng for the home which is 
so concentred in I : and witk a strong determination 
to take excellent care of it ? Oh no, Pun : let us love 
the country, only remembering always, that towns are, 
and that thereby we have the morning papers. As to 
the I, it is inevitable. No one can be rid of it: at 
least," said he, with a subdued voice, " not here." 

Sitting by the river-side, we pondered upon events : 
the past, the future, and the warm present. Therm, at 
90° as we left the south piazza. But there is a cool- 
ness in the sound of running waters. It was pleasant, 
therefore, by the river, and the silent vote was that the 
day was surpassingly fine. 

Frank finished his first cigar, and lighting a second, 
opened Tennyson to page 158, vol. ii. 

And on her lover's arm she leant, 
And round her waist she felt it fold, 

And far across the hills they went, 
In that new world which is the old. 

Across the hills and far away 
Beyond their utmost purple rim, — 



92 Up-Country Letters, 

" What a delightful time they must have had. Pun, 
would you like to travel ?" 

" No : I have travelled. What is the use of travel 
except to come home again ?" 

" Yes ; but suppose you take your home with you ? 
For, you observe, ' On her lover's arm she leant,' and 
moreover, ' Deep into the dying day, the happy maiden 
followed him : ' and, in another place, it reads, ' Through 
all the world she followed him.' So Ruth, also, 
, Whither thou goest,' &c. — don't you see, sir, that it's 
important to travel ?" 

Mr. Pundison was restinoj from the fatigue of his 
late argument upon personalities, and made no reply. 

" That is," continued Frank, after a considerable 
pause, " to travel in this way, with some one following 
you all about the world, ' Beyond the night, across the 
day ; ' " and rising, he skipped a stone far out into the 
river, and seated himself again, on a bed of moss. 

" Pun," said he, suddenly, with an indifferent man- 
ner, " do you think I ought to marry ?" •' Why not ?*' 
said Mr. P., who was nearly asleep. " Why not ! " said 
Frank, warming indignantly ; " why that is the whole 
heart of the matter. Observe ! Have I the right to take 
any one with me, on such a journey as this life must 
be to me ? To embody with this life," he continued, 



Frank and Mr. Pundison. 93 

rising and walking to and fro, and addressing, by turns, 
and with a solemn pause to each, the river and the 
sky, and a king-bird that looked down shyly at him, from 
the top branch of a hickory — " to embody — to fasten upon 
this life, health and youth, and hope, and the pureness 
of a holy and glad soul ? To make this young child old 
before her time ? Does God design such things ? Is it 
right — is it right — oh, is it right 2" 

The river made no reply : the king-bird was non- 
committal, waiting for a bee ; otherwise he would have 
had an opinion : and Mr. Pundison was in his usual 
after-dinner forgetfulness. 

" Pah !" said Frank, " the man's asleep ! What a 
happy dreamer he is, with his T., and Tidy and the 
dogs, and his easy way of napping. I Avonder if he 
dould spare any of them — could he spare Tidy, for 
instance ? And what would T. do l " 

At this jimcture Mr. Pundison awoke, and related a 
remarkable dream at great length and detail, and wound 
up by asking Frank if he believed in dreams. 

" Bah ! " said Frank, " that isn't the question. 
Tlie question is" — rising and placing both hands on his 
friend's shoulders — " the question is, do you think, my 
dear Pun, do you think" — 

The pause being a very long one, and Frank con- 



94 Up-Country Letters. 

tinuing to look laim very steadily in the eye, Mr. P, sug- 
gested, " Well— do I think Avhat 1" 

" Do you think" — relaxing his grasp, and a smile of 
consciousness returning to his pale face — " do you think 
— it will rain to-morrow ?" 

" I think it will," said Mr. P. very gravely, " you can 
see it in the sunset — there is the rain tint ; but the next 
day, Frank, will be glorious !" 



XV. 

Bmmm Meiitlrer. 

Pundison House, Up-Country, ) 
July 10, 1850. ) 

The summer goes on royally. That blast fi-om the last 
of the icebergs has passed away, and now the days and 
nights roll softly and radiantly through the Avarm airs 
of 80 and 90 of Fahrenheit. 

Frank sends me, this morning, one of the pleasant 
results of this delicious weather ; all rocked out in verse, 
after his fashion. 

We interchange thus, every thing, even to gems of 
tlie first water. What is mine is his, and what is his is 
mine, to the bottom of our pockets : and when he dies 
(and may the sweet Heavens keep the day f;ir distant), 
I fancy I shall not stay long away from him. 
I T. is discussing travel — a look about town — a little 
of the soa-air, and so forth. 



96 Up-Country Letters. 

If we go, it will be in a circle — and a small one, I 
hope — returning with swift and glad wings. Shall we 
meet any where ? I inclose the " Thanksgivijig." 

Yours, Z. P. 



XVI. 



fl]int!isgiljinu. 



By Frank Brynrs. July, 1850. 

The clay went on brightly, till nearly at noon, 
When the thunder, and lightning, and rain, 

Came down in broad sheets, and the burning air soon 
Was cool and fragrant again. 

All the rest of the day, the black masses lay, 

Shutting U3 up in the gloom of a night 
Which arrived all too soon ; and the beautiful birds 

Shuddered and looked for the light. 

But, just at the sunset, the clouds roll'd away; 

And the blue of the sky, kind thoughts, sweet words, 
And the red light, that went down with the day, 
Seem'd all one with the song of the bhds ; 
Aad the birds sang all the night long. 
5 



98 Up-Country Letters. 

Far down in the meadows came up their sweet voices, 

Each, one and all, in its silver tone cast ; 
And with all their might singing — as one who rejoices, 

And says a thanksgiving for storms tliat are past. 

Then soon came the moonlight, and play'd in the trees, 
The thorough-clad maples that shade all the laoxise, 

Nodding and tossing their heads in the breeze — 

The sweet summer breeze that came up from the south : 
Where the birds sang all the night long. 

Late in tlie night we went up to our rooms — 
Rooms hght and airy, set apart for sweet rest, 

With wide-open windows whicJi look'd from tlie east, 
All round through the south to the west. 

Tliere lay the white moonlight, chasing the glooms, 
While the maples were nodding and tossing without, 

And the sweet music flew round through the rooms ; 
Sometimes as in prayer, sometimes with a shout — 
Of the birds singing all the night long. 

Reclin'd upon couches, we thought not of sleep. 
But mark'd how the moonlight seem'd writing out words, 

On the bright-tinted carpet, noiseless and deep, 
For this beautiful song of the birds. 

But looking we nodded, and nodding we di'eamed ; 
And the thunder, and lightning, and rain, 



Thanksgiving. 99 

Precisely as yesterday — only worse — seemed 
To come back to our spirits agaiu, 

"While the bii'ds sang all the night long, 

Tlien again — all the day — the black masses lay, 

Shutting us up in the gloom of a night 
Which had come all too soon : and, like the sweet birds, 

We sliudder'd and look'd for the light. 

But waking, ere morning, behold 'twas a dream — 
This return of the storm — for the sky was still blue, 

And the music still came, and flew like the gleam 
Of the moonlight playing the maple-boughs through, 
Of the birds singing all the night long. 

Straightway I arose, and call'd out to my friends : 

" Let us sing now a thankfgiving song: 
Or again, in some form, we shall dream of that storm, 

Lo! the birds sing all the nirjht long !" 

Tlien we sang a glad song, and the rest that came after, 
Illumined with light, was so tranquil and deep, 

Tliat never was song, or gladness, or laughter, 
So rich and heart-filling as that morning sleep: 
When the birds sang all the night long. 

Frank sends mc a note, in regard to the above, as 
follows : 

" You remember the storm, the dark afternoon, the 



100 Up-Country Letters. 

sunset, and tbe moonliglit, I suppose [I liad forgotten 
about it, but Tidy remembers it minutely, and says sbe 
heard the very same birds : having waked in the night, 
after a strange dream she had, and which she recounts 
with great vivacity] ; but you may not have heard the 
birds sing : I did, however, and heard them afterwards, 
on going to bed, and deep in the night ; whether I 
arose and called my friends together for a song is a 
matter not so easily detemiined — I may have dreamed 
that part of it. But I made uj) the poem, much as it is 
now, before daylight ; ah, my friend, if such things 
would happen every day, that I might sing out the 
remnant of my life in song, song and thanksgiving ! Is 
there such a life anywhere, do you suj^pose ? and should 
we tire of it, think you ? I shall soon know, perhaps. 

" ' Like this,' as our friend C. says, like it, oh, Z. P., 
and say it is charmante — say it is enchanting ! say it is 
— let me see — say it is heart-filling, and then, may be, 
some fine morning, I will send you some more. 

" P. S. — You are not to imagine, that it was the pop- 
lar blackbirds I heard the other night. Sir, they are 
gabblers, compared with the singing that came up from 
those meadows. Do you think they were meadow 
larks? They came from the meadows, and from the 
river-side, and occasionally seemed to be all about the 



I 



Thanksgiving. 101 

house, pausing now and tlien, and then bui'sting out 
again, and making it all ring with their sweet singings. 
Like it — Uke it — oh, Z. P., like it exceedingly. 

Frank Bryaes." 



XVIL 

%\lt ^mmtl n)i Hit |Iiiar. 

July 15, — , Piazza. 

A GREAT day! ten o'cloct, ante-meridian, and thermo- 
meter at 85°. I sliall get two naps to-day. One before 
dinner, and one after. Pre, and post-prandial. One in 
the hammock between the maples (before it gets too 
hot) ; one in the leather-back, on the piazza. 

How did you like the " Thanksgiving ? " Cleverish ! 
I think so. But Frank, poor fellow, deceives himself 
about those thing's, and so, I fear, does one other, who 
sees wonders in all Frank does. Doubtless, he wrote it 
off easily and rapidly ; but what then ? What does it 
all amount to ? You may laugh, but I believe I could 
do it myself, half-a-dozen times a day. Give me a sub- 
ject, sir, and observe the consequences — the rhythms 
and myths which shall come to you all in the latest 
and highest style of art. Moreover, — who ever heard of 
a sheet of thunder ? 



The Hammock and the Placer. 103 

A great day. " A July day," as some one says, 
*' hot and glorious." I saw it in a paper — a Boston 
paper. It was about a book, and I would give a gold 
piece to know who said it. " Hot and glorious ! " 

I was almost asleep, just now, when all in the mid- 
day stillness, solemn almost as the midnight, I heard a 
light step in the gi-ass, and behold the dog Rover a}> 
proachiug cautiously, with an immense bone in his 
mouth, giving him a very fierce appearance ; only that 
his eyes, as he stopped to look at me, were mild and 
beneficent. After giving me this high, abstract look, he 
walked very slowly down the gravel-path, his tail curled 
extremely tight on his back, and his whole movement 
solemn and important. At the bottom of the yard he 
stops, now, and looks about cautiously, makes a right 
angle to the foot of the pine-tree, puts do\\Ti his bone, 
and looks about again. What will he do next ? He 
considers a moment, and now he decides. Let us work, 
he says, while the day lasts. He is diggmg a hole, and 
his fore-paws play in and out, swifter than a weaver's 
shuttle. And now he drops the bone in the hole, 
covers it carefully, but quickly, and walks up again, in 
the same grand manner, his tail, if any thing, a little 
higher and tighter than before. He walks up to mo 
and lauGchs, in the broadest sense of the word. Not a 
hor--c-laugh, but a dog-laugh. 



104 Up-Country Letters. 

Pompey, where are you ? I call Pompey, and we, 
also, take a little walk. I take Pompey to that hole 
under the pine-tree, and make suggestions. No ? Ab- 
solutely, sir, the dog says he smells nothing there — 
nothing at all. Rover stands a little way off, profoundly 
indifferent. I put him at the scent. " "What is it ?" he 
says, looking up the north road, very furious — " show 
me the enemy !" and he sneezes three times, and looks 
up — down— any where rather than at that deposit — 
that placer — richer to him than Golconda — which the 
rascal has just now made. 

Ah, what a world it is, sir ! I am outwitted by two 
silly dogs. Henceforth I will stay in my hammock, and 
inquire, " What is truth ? " 

How innocent they look. Babes in the wood not 
more so. Unless some bumble-bee happens along, they 
will be asleep directly. Just now, before they left the 
pine, I observed they stopped to dogmatize upon some 
subject, and were apparently in high glee. They had 
compared notes ! 

Good morning, I will now take nap number one. 

Z. P. 



XVIII. 

Tumbling Beach, Tac Halternc, ) 
August, 1850. ) 

You see by my date, sir, that we are out in the great 
world. Our friends who were with us, when I last 
wrote, left us after one or two pleasant weeks, and we 
began to be slightly dull. !My wife, also, had some 
ambition about getting abroad a little, and, to-day, a 
week, we were among the arrivals at ■ House, 
Tumbling Beach, Tac Hatterac. 

It is not wise, Professor (as one of the five hundred 
here gathered) ; it is not wise, or well, to bark at the 
proceedings ; but a modest man may state a preference : 
and mine would be for a lamb chop, a corn pudding, 
and one large potato, at, say, Pundison House, Up- 
Country. For five hundred people can hardly be dined 
as well as one or two, or a half-dozen ; eh ? but — one 
can stay away. 

5* 



106 Up-Country Letters. 

The joy here is the sea; and that is a heart-full. 
But I love it more on the southern shores. North of 
Savannah it is too cold for northern invalids : too cold 
for me, now that I have turned the point of good health, 
and am descending among uncertainties. The air, too, 
is an anodyne. I sleep continually, and no dogs to keep 
me company. Waking, I hear only this solemn 
pulse beating fainter or louder : and dreaming, I weave 
it into strange and manifold harmonies. I shall go 
mad, or something like it, if we stay here. It Avill not 
do.' T. is with me, and she is all the world to me — 
Pundison House excepted. If I should get crazed here, 
and jump into the breakers, what would the child do ? 
No : we must go home ; but we will do it at leisure. 
Frank is hurrying us; but hurry and I have parted. 
Did I say that Tidy is with us ? She is pleasant and 
happy as usual ; but has a great liking, of late, to long 
and lonely walks on the beach; and di'eams, I fear, 
more than ever. Only that I cannot peimit any thing 
to fatigue, she would be a puzzle to me. The excite- 
ments, my dear Professor, that pass me by, from this 
absolute necessity of repose, are many and various. It is 
so pleasant, in case of annoyance and wrong, to say to 
myself — " My friend, you are not well enough, as yet, to 
be indignant." So, also, as to speculation and inquiry : — 



The Sea-Side. 107 

while T. is just now beginning to remark upon this and 
that, I am calm and composed ; my remarks to the same 
effect, having been made weeks ago, and no urgency can 
induce me to reconsider. Let the child dream, say I : 
what has that to do at the sea-shore, which was a medi- 
tation of almost a month ago, at Pundison House ? 

When is your furlough ? Those two weeks, I mean, 
of up-country shootings, wild as your own comets, for so 
only can you by any economy of calculation see the 
half of your friends, and then only at a glance. Where 
shall we meet ? Write me when you leave the gi-eat 
city, and I will contrive a collision, if possible. 

Frank, I am sorry to say, is poorly ; he started to 
come down to us, but only reached New York, -where 
he is way-laid with his ailings, and is only caring, now, 
to get back again to the north. He Avrites cheerfully, as 
usual. I send you his letter of a day or two since. 



Mansion House, Simday afternoon. 

Dear Zach: 

The beautiful Sunday is almost gone, — so swiftly go 
the blight and happy things, and now I turn longing 
eyes, seaward and up-country, to the friends who are on 
either side, but not here to cheer this maimed and grum- 



108 Up-Country JjEtters. 

bling life. It is five of tlie cloct, "but still sunny and 
pleasant. I am just up from a sleep of two blessed 
hours, taken from the rich heart of this golden day. 
How must the little devils, if such there are (and doubt- 
less there are youngsters in iniquity), how must they 
have been astonished that, doing their worst, they could 
not prevent that composing draught, — that sweet obliv- 
ion of two mortal hours. If any doctor had said to me, 
" sleep from three to five," I could not have done it more 
to the letter of the prescription. I had a little fire in the 
grate, for the morning was cool, and having dined at two 
o'clock (as all do to-day), I wheeled up the sofa, got 
into my slippers, and, as aforesaid, made the little devils 
gape with astonishment. 

I went down this morning to St. Paul's Church, and 
being in my old coat and hat, the sexton gave me a seat 
far down the aisle — with a rum-breather. Miserable- 
looking was he, thin and pale, and almost paralytic : but 
he had with him a dogs-eared " delightful prayer book," 
which he constantly studied and pored over, reading 
with a kind of solemn gladness, that was almost ludi- 
crous : He rose and sat down, half the time, all wrong, 
but with entire unconsciousness of so doing. In fact he 
had a certain grand manner, occasionally, that expressed 
something like this — "Undoubtedly : — now let us praise 



The Rum -Breather. 109 

the Lord !" and upon this he would rise with great dig- 
nity. I have spoken of his foul breath, but now I began 
to sympathize with this strange man, and concluded to 
stay through the service : but then, I said to myself, I 
would certainly go — and being so far down the aisle, I 
could easily slip out by one of the west doors : but the 
service went on, and all the while the man seemed so 
unconscious of annoyance to any body, I could scarcely 
reconcile my mind to what would seem so like an un- 
christian act. He looked about forty years old, and was 
already bald almost down to his ears, where was a little 
stubble which he kept trained to grow up instead of 
down : his face was cadaverous as death itself, and all 
the time he was sitting, he kept twisting his skeleton 
legs around each other like wires, and was bending and 
fumbling over that old torn prayer-book. Occasional])^, 
he turned his wretched face about upon the audi- 
ence ; and once, as I had not taken my book, he offered 
to divide his with me, which, however, I declined. Now 
and then, as perhaps after gazing, in a sort of puzzle at 
his withered hands, he would brace up, and scorn to be 
saying to himself — " We arc thin and poor — but we do 
hold out amazingly, a-mazingly : — we may outlive these 
young people after all : the Lord be praised ! Amen !" 
Finally, the service was over, and we stepped out 



110 Up-Country Letters. 

into tlie aisle, when, to m}^ worldless horror, he put on 
his hat in the middle of the church ! ^f y wrath (for if it 
was not wrath which I then felt, what was it ?) my 
wrath, I say, was immense, and I could hardly keep 
from taking his hat off forcibly with my own hands. 
After all I had imagined about him — after all I had put 
up with, from him — so kindly as I had felt for him — for 
him to put his hat on — and a shocking bad hat, too — 
all square and fair in the open church ! I choked it all 
down, however, saying to myself, " He don't know any 
better, perhaps, — let him live — let the poor fellow live !" 
and so, instead of taking his hat, per force, I went on 
with him, side by side ; the crowd, I thought, staring 
about as much at me, in my old coat, as at him, and so 
at last, we passed out into the bright sunshine : I, to 
come up to my pleasant rooms, and among cheerful 
faces, and he, perhaps, to go to his miserable home, — 
who knows ? — and to his miserable grog. But the last 
I saw of him, he had his little prayer-book fast with 
him : — it was still clean enough for him : I looked upon 
his Avretched face, and over and over again, as I mixed 
in the gay throng which now crowded the streets, I 
thought — I may need his prayers more than he may 
need mine : God only knows. And so, again and again, 
in the waving crowd of elegance and dress, that simple 



The Rum-Breather. Ill 

and all-embracing petition was on my lips and at my 
heart ; still pressing and pressing, and again pressing, 
its sweet repetition : 

M^ CdIi \)m iiicrrti upon nsl 

Yours, Frank Bryars, 



I inclose one other letter which came to-day. 

AlansioQ HoiisP) Wuduesdtiy, 

Dear Zach. : 

It's a rainy morning, and rather cold and dark, but 
I say to myself, — it's Wednesday, and the week can't last 
always, and to-morrow Fanny is coming down, and then 
I shall get me up, how joyfully, to my rest in the hills 
of the up-country. For some days, I have been as clear 
as a mountain spring, — but this morning, by the help 
of an anodyne for last night's rest, I am muddy and 
disagreeable. 

I got your letter yesterday, indicating its arrival by 
a star on the corner of the one I sent you. Ah, my 
fiiend, when will you be done with the small vanity of 
that watering-place ? Come up, oh Zachariah P., be- 
fore I cast you off as a worldhng, and a vagabone : come 
back to the hills — to your easy nap after dinner, and 



112 Up-Country Letters. 

the sweet breath of the morning. As for me, I am weary 
of this great city. If, in some happy moment, I wander 
down the street, singing some Httle stave, or whistHng a 
small matter to myself, one cannot help seeing that 
people stare, as though I was doing some wicked thing ; 
this it is, or my old coat, and which, I find it difficult to 
determine. Oh, let me go home : much do I want to 
see your father again, and to sit once more under the 
old maples and pines : unless you come home, sir, I may 
go over to Pundison House, and take possession : that 
puppy, too, I must see — I want to hear his bark — he's 
beginning early — but so it is in this damp and miserable 
Avorld, where the " original sin " breaks out, even in pup- 
pies : there is no escape, you see, from the general law. 
An important query might be started, in regard to dogs, 
" whether the sins of the fathers descend unto the third 
and fourth generations :" I have seen dogs, which have 
given me strong suspicions, that they were sufteringfrom 
the above law : as to Rover and Pompey, it is plain that 
their progenitors were of the highest respectability, and 

no doubt of gentle blood. Your father's rhyme, T. 

prefer, as first composed : 

"The little dog came over: 
Kate chain'd him fast to Rover : 
They feel as fiuo as calves in clover. " 



The Birth-Day. 113 

In this way the lines harmonize, and the sentiment 
is brought out in a gradually increasing climax, Avhich 
is very effective. But, -when you say " bouncing over,'' 
and " poor Rover," the harmony of the parts is disturbed, 
and the accent brought in the wrong place. I may be 
wrong, but would respectfully submit the matter to your 
father's more mature consideration. In either case, I 
suppose, the facts will remain the same. This is import- 
ant. Is Tidy to stay with you ? If she thinks of going 
home soon, I would tiy to come down for her. Say to 
her that I saw an old friend of hers a day or two since, 
who asked a thousand questions about her. Don't for- 
get this. Good-bye. F. B. 

P. S. — It is Thursday night, and I am entering — or 
rather am already entered — upon my twenty-fifth year ! 
Am I sorry about it ? Oh, no ! a thousand times no ! 
Let the dead bury the dead :. but let us go on ! If to 
grow older, is to gi-ow wiser and better (and without 
this hope, life is a misnomer), then let me grow old 
rapidly. Let them come on ! let them come on, the 
days that are left to me ; and the swifter the better. 

People talk of growing old, as though at the death 
of this body, we should not continue to grow on, as be- 
fore. Ah, sir, let me say it with reverence, but I ask 
you, Is not the Almighty the Ancient of Days ? 



114 Up-Country Letters. 

But at twenty-four (almost half the old allotted 
period) it is time, high time, my old fiiend, to he ready 
for the long journey. Time for us to do something- 
more, than to loiter about the world, eating, and drink- 
ing, and sleeping, and being, in some weak fashion, 
respectably decent, and passably amiable, and not out- 
rageously vile. For, wherever we go, into whatever 
place of abode, when we leave these ashes and take on 
that higher life, shall we not carry with us this winged 
and fiery spirit, which, if we curb it not now, and 
chasten it not now, and master it not now, will then 
master us ? Adieu. Frank Bryars. 



gl]e garlt gags. 



FuDdisoD House, Up-Country, 
Nov. 1850. 



On ! my friend, what a lapse is here ! Looking back to 
your last letter, I find the wann date of July, and I re- 
member me, also, in that already dim and far-away time, 
of various talks of naps on the piazza, thunder-storms 
and such like tropical mattei's : and now, it is this sol- 
emn and cold time of the year, which we call November. 
Out-doors, as it happens this morning, — and will often 
happen, no doubt, till winter comes, — are the gray wet 
sky, and the slippery walking, and the rawness of east- 
erly winds : within doors, we make up such a contrast 
as you find in a grate well filled with large blocks of 
Avood, and a modicum of coal ; making a very grand sub- 
stitute for a Christmas fire. My wife has already got up 
her curtains, huge as they are, and ponderous to a 
weighty degree, as I think, for a plain up-country house. 



118 Up-Countuy Letters. 

In these dark clays, I threaten occasionally to cut them 
dowa ; and we have only compromised at last, by hav- 
ing them well fastened back, so as to get a kind of 
bright twilight that is endurable. Mrs. P., at this mo- 
ment, sits close by, looking intently and motionless upon 
a pile of stuffs that are spread out before her. A mo- 
ment since she was measuring it, by holding one end at 
the tip of her nose, and stretching out the stuff to the 
length of her left arm. This proceeding looks very wise 
— few things look more so, — but the odds are, from that 
lady's present appearance, that she is in a snarl of some 
kind. That is my opinion : but I never say any thing 
upon such occasions, as I should probably fail of getting 
any reply, at least before tea. I should not wonder, if 
there were more curtains in the case, to darken some 
other pleasant room. "VVe shall see. 

Talking of tea, our little round table is lonely of late. 
Tidy, who was with us last summer, \vas tempted off to 
the house of a friend at the sea-side, and has not yet 
returned : we look for her soon, and then we shall be- 
gin to think of Thanksgiving and Christmas. So we 
go : only the other day it was summer, and now we talk 
of our Thanksgiving, and what we shall send to the 
Rector. And what have we done, all this time, other 
than to go through the same round of eating and sleep- 



The Dark Days. 119 

ing, with now and then an extraordinary dream? are 
we wiser, better, stouter ? I wish I could claim the last, 
at least ; but here I am, as usual, with my old growls 
and weaknesses, and sometimes with a doubt, as to what 
the Avinter will do with me. But I rather incline to put 
a good face upon matters. The dogs, — let me say, — 
never were better ; or their perfonnances more strikingly 
brilliant. It is amusing to see them sitting, side by side, 
in the sunshine, on still cold mornings, disdaining, as it 
were, any shelter, and perhaps acclimating by a kind of 
instinctive forethought against the intense cold which 
will he coming by and by. I will take a lesson from 
them, and as C. says, " cirkelate, cirkelate." How is the 
quicksilver with you ? we count do-mito 34°. 

Yours, Z. P. 

P. S. — I have left this sheet imfinished, for a day or 
two, and now — behold a morning, clear and sparlding 
as a moimtain spring. It is so utterly still, that the 
hammers over the river ring out far and wide ; while 
the great Shag-Bark grumbles and growls like forty-five 
bears all tied by the tail. Every one speaks low and 
dreamingly. Tib, who used to stand all last summer, in 
the farther comer of the pasture, in the shade of the 
hickories, now parades hereelf in the very middle of 
the meadow, and looks the sun straight in the f^ice : 



120 Up-Country Letters. 

looks and cliews. I can distinctly see the motion of her 
chops at this distance, and the smoke of her breath. 

But I have not told you, that with the new weather, 
came Tidy from the low country. Even so : we have 
given her the south-room, up-stairs ; which looks miles 
away, over the river and rapids, and by one window in 
the east, you can look over the well-pole, down through 
the pine grove to the very region of the rising sun. 
Very pleasant it is of a lazy morning to see the sun, 
blazing in over the pine trees of the grove, or through 
the bare branches of the maples on the south : pleasant, 
I say, so to lie and hesitate, between the pleasure of the 
half-dream, which you know is a dream only, and the 
undoubted reality of buckwheat cakes and hot souchong, 
getting ready below. Tidy, who is always dreaming, 
will, of course, have golden dreams there. With a clean 
wood fire, and an open hearth, and that immense chair, 
which is large enough for at least three such little bo- 
dies as hers, she will like that room, I fancy, almost as 
much as the seat under the maples in the warm sum- 
mer-time. Sometimes we shall look in upon her ; but 
more often she will come down, and help take from the 
gravity of these grand and ponderous curtains. I have 
put a stove in the hall, which sends up a constant cloud 
of vapor from the top, making the travel between the 



The Dark Days. 121 

rooms perfectly summer-like : not hot, observe, but charm- 
ingly warm. 

Good morning. My wife, — I will remark, — ^lias come 
out of her entanglement, and is perfectly self-possessed 
and calm : or rather, she is more than that ; she is exu- 
berant. "Whatever difficulty it was, it is plain that it 
has disappeared ; and she goes about the house, Hke a 
ship with top-gallants and studding-sails all out to the 
breeze. Addio, Z. P. 



n. 

Up-Country, November, 

In these short days the dark comes early. By five; 
o'clock, usually, we are housed ; all out-door chores are 
carefully done ; and then, when we have gathered about 
the round-table, us four making the circle complete, and 
the lamp (that beauty of a golden-stemmed lamp) in the 
centre, giving a kind of unity to the whole proceeding, 
— like a poem perfect in all its parts, — I say at this 
time, there is a certain keeping in Madame's curtains, tO; 
which I give a large and generous admission. I by no 
means deny this certain propriety, and the less so as 
they help to set off a picture over the mantel, which is; 
to me a daily refreshment. It is a Claude : an arm of 
the sea, leading out into a warm sunset, where, strug- 
gling in the haze and golden glory of that distance, are 
faint indications — shadows as it were — of ships outward 



PuNDisoN House in November. 123 

bouTid. It isjhe play of the wind and the sunlight on 
the sea that pleases me. My friend, the celebrated 

, says it's a detestable copy ; but, to me, it's as 

sweet as a summer morning. 

There is one other picture which I study, as I per- 
ambulate the room of sunny afternoons, between naps — 
a small affi^ir — indicating a cottage (pretty good, I 
fancy), and a lake in the hills, with a figure, one and 
solitary, on its banks. Whether that figure be meant 
to indicate a man, or a woman, or a large boy. nobody 
can determine ; people puzzle over it, but to no efiect. 

They say it is a poor painting ; a pleasant fact to 
rae. If it were better I could make no improvement of 
my own. I do not like things which are beyond criti- 
cism : but after criticising, it is pleasant to overpower 
every thing wiih a magnificent show of the good inten- 
tion manifested, and the good things done, notwithstand- 
ing. Perfections, in the next life, it is possible, we may 
like : but not here. A perfection, sir, is an impertinence. 

But all this time a sad event has been fluttering 
about the paper, and trying to get itself written 
do^vn, and I may as well tell you at once. Re- 
member, however, our comfortable rooms, and the 
magnificent curtains, and the paintings ; come back 
to thorn — will you? — when I have told you that 



124 Up-Country Letters. 

my friend Frank, is gone ! Gone, sir, to the other 
world ! Not that other world which is beyond the 
grave ; but that old world which is over seas. Gonog 
sir, straight for Ould England. His sister is with him 
of course. I confess to an indescribable shock, when we 
first discovered their intentions ; and I cannot helj 
thinking that Frank has done it partly from some faini 
grudge at our summer performances ; for he was not 
well enough to go with us, even in the short airings 
which Mrs. P. and myself took, here and there. 

As I said, I am inclined to think that Frank took 
the opportunity of being poorly, to go off to England. 
A miserable excuse is poor health, to go chasseeing 
about the Atlantic, and looking for better digestion in 
that cloudy England. I told him so, but he only smiled 
and made no reply ; and now I think of it, and remem* 
ber that sad look, I almost doubt if he had any such 
feeling as I have intimated. I think it was Mrs. P. and 
Tidy who suggested it. You are not aware, perhap4 
that things even trifling as summer trips, have a certain 
solemn greatness to women, which we know nothing o£ 

Well, he is gone ; and wb are left to winter alone. 
My father's last words to him were, " Write plain;''' 
for, of course, we expect to get news from him often. 
If you like, I will pick you out when they arrive, sucb 



PuNDisoN House in November. 125 

bits of news as may interest you, and send them down. 
They 'will help you get through the long evenings. 

What with looking for his letters, and shooting at 
him as he runs about, here and there, I am consoling 
myself that it will do almost as well as his actual pre- 
sence. The old house is noAv pretty much alone : one 
servant only — old Tim — stays about to take care of the 
poultry and such matters ; and, once in a while, we all 
go up, and help shake out the beds, and fire pistols 
in the dark rooms, to scare away all possible mice and 
vagrants. 

Some days, when I know nothing better to do, I go 
up, and surround myself with books and papers, before 
a huge fire in the parlor ; and order old Tim up and 
down the house upon nameless errands, with a view of 
preventing his getting too rusty. There, sometimes, I 
also escape on those indescribable days when things do 
not harmonize well at home. But, whatever the confu- 
sion at home — and it is mostly pick-up-dinner days, and 
Mondays, to which I allude — when in spite of the dis- 
tance of the operations, and the absolute stillness, as 
great as of any other day, there is a certain elate look 
and feeling in every body, which are only proper to mat- 
tei-s of enterprise and eftbrt ; and these fatigue : — I say, 
in spite of this, my coming home is always coming to 



120 



Up-Country Letters, 



such a welcome, that I vow, always, never to vagrantize 
from that day forth again. It is at home only that I 
am myself. Under the mild glory of that immortal 
Claude, all thoughts are mellowed into proportions, and 
right postures : or, if that fail, I look at the cottage and 
the mysterious personage in that other gem of which I 
have spoken, and straightway am at large in the land 
of dreams, and all delightful uncertainties. 

Good-bye, my friend : it is Saturday night, and the' 
day of rest — God's blessing be on it for ever — is closoj 
upon us. Good night. Z. P. 



ti 



III. 

November, 1850. 

I CONFESS the weakness, sir, wliicli you suggest. I am 
partial to those dogs. Their heroism, their readiness for 
events, their social and conversational qualities, their hap- 
py and hearty way of laughing, and I may add, their 
high consciousness of the dignity of Pundison House, 
and all things belonging to Pundison House, — these, sir, 
are bands of steel. I am partial, and I — intend to be. 
When they can find better masters, let them look up and 
down the world, and choose. 

Last night, sir, some villainous apology of a man un- 
dertook forcible entrance to our house through one oftlie 
north cellar windows. The dogs reported the outrage with 
a furious bedlam of exclamations ; and Kate, who sleeps 
in a piazza-room on the first floor, immediately aroused 
my father, who loosed them, — all wild as they were, — 



128 Up-Country Letters, 

upon tlie enemy, and stood by for the fight. But he 
had been wise, — that burglar, that bloody-minded and 
contemptible prowler, — he had taken an early start. 
Nothing was seen but two shirt-sleeves in the distance, 
fading rapidly into the dark ; and a sort of wave un- 
derneath, as of legs, in a swift and headlong motion. 
Doubtless, the man who carried those legs, rejoiced ex- 
ceedingly, that he was betimes on his travels. 

The dogs have scarcely yet recovered from their min- 
gled excitement and chagrin. They growl upon the 
faintest occasion ; and I doubt if they will get any real 
sleep, now, for the rest of the winter. 

"Life, my dear Pomp," — I imagine Rover thus ad- 
dressing him — " Life is serious and earnest. The world, 
my brother, is a world of trial. Unceasing vigilance, — 
nothing less — unceasing vigilance must be our rule. 
Let us never forget, Pompey, that tve are the guardians 
of Pundison House. It is ours to protect, — it is ours to 
warn, — to be always at call, — to be cheerful and happy, 
to never despond, — and it is ours my brother,^ — I say it is 
ours, — to die for our masters ! In short, — but hush ! 

What's that ? Yow-yow ! yow ! yow-yow ! Ow ! 

— ow ! ow ! ow ! — ow-ow-ow-ow-ow-ow — OW 1" 

One morning, last summer, during our absence, my 
father left home for a considerable journey at the early 



Burglars — Kate and Bob. 129 

hour of 5 o'clock, A. M. The dogs followed him for a 
while, yelping in the maddest way, and were only at 
last beaten back by brute force. How they employed 
themselves immediately thereafter is not known. Pom- 
pey arrived at Pundison House in about four hours, 
looking very wild and forlorn, and refused point blank, 
to enter the house except by the front door, where he 
proceeded to examine carefully all the rooms on that 
floor, Eover appears to have taken further argument. 
He anived fifteen hours behind time. His mind now 
being fully made up, he at once laid himself down on 
the kitchen floor, as though dead ; refusing to eat, or to 
express himself in any manner whatever. To him, the 
world had become one vast blank of horror and dark- 
ness. Of com-se, sir, dogs hke these, are beyond price. 
I cannot pass by Kate, without saying that she is 
the nearest approximation to a foultless servant, that we 
have ever had. She is small, but strong and compact, 
and the very picture of gentleness and decision. She is 
Irish, but her talk is like the tone of the Spanish, and 
the words she uses are all of t]ie2>^'tnbiest kind. Having a 
low voice, she utters them with a modest richness of 
manner, which gives them gi'eat eflfect. I consider that, 
Httle piazza-room as eminently proper for Kate. She' 
sleeps with her feet straight out against the window, 



130 Up-Country Letters. 

which is only breast high fi-om the ground, and opens 
upon the whole southern hemisphere. Although not 
more than twenty, my wife says she is intensely old- 
maidish in her ways; and if so, perhaps it is because she 
thinks so much of her father, — who has gone to heaven, 
she saj's, — and the angels which she sees in the moon- 
light nights. 

Perhaps you will think, sir, that all incidents that 
ever happen, and all people who ever gather, in this our 
house, must be in some way remarkable : and, doubt- 
less, it is so. We are a remarkable people, and we do 
remarkable things : or rather, we do usual and common 
things, in a remarkable way. I did think there was an 
exception in Bob ; but I was wrong, for Bob is remark- 
ably fat. Figuratively, Bob is to Kate, as three is to 
four : Bob being about three feet high, and Kate four, 
or four and a half. But here we stop ; for whereas Kate, 
though well rounded, is trim and steady, and moves like 
a pilot-boat. Bob, — is heavy ; and goes with a step. 
Bob's face is large and round, and all open to the world : 
so is his belly. You think he is superfluously thick ; 
until you discover his extraordinary ability and tough- 
ness ; and his kindness is what you would expect from a 
brother of Kate. It is, — I may say, — without bottom. 
Kate, I consider a good CathoKc ; but Mrs. P. insists 



Burglars — Kate and Bob, 131 

that she is a Romanist. Bob has probably never con- 
centrated his attention on religious matters, and quite 
likely — is all abroad as to the thirty-nine articles ; but 
in acting" out a wholesome, hearty life, he is, perhaps, 
safe enough as he is. Oh, my Professor, when will you 
draw about you these pleasant aids and appliances of 
life : the Avife, and the sisters, and the servants, and the 
little round table, and the curtains ; the breakfast, hot 
and vapory — the planning for the day, and the bread 
and cider at evening? When will you do this one good 
thing, which is still possible ? When ? 

Yours Z. P. 



IV. 

il]e last at 'giakmkx. 

Still in the undoubted November ! A light snow which 
has fallen over night, lies thinly upon the ground, and 
upon the arms of the big cedar, and the two pines in 
the front yard, and now, after breakfast, the snow has 
changed to a fine rain and sleet. Looking high and low 
out the south window, I do not see a single motion of 
life : all is still, cold, damp, and to some extent, awful ; 
chiefly, however, to those who have breakfasted badly, 
or, — worse still — who are continually remembering the 
bad breakfast of yesterday and last week. For, by 
taking rubbers and mackintosh, we should find the cow, 
— Tib, — chewing her cud under the barn-yard shed, with 
a sleepy satisfaction, nowise disturbed by two or three 
hens roosting on her back, or the score of others scratch- 
ing about below. Among this score, some have been 



I 



The last of November. 133 

out in the weather and go about with draggled tails, and 
a look of misery that is very profound. Others stand 
on one leg, ingathered from all outward influences. But 
appearances are deceitful. It is not impossible, sir, that 
each particular hen in that company will leave a smooth 
white egg somewhere in the course of the day. 

One chap, I observe, has made his home in the front 
yard. Roosters and hens, Professoi-, have, and ought to 
have, nothing to do with ethics or moi-als. But this 
fellow has probably trespassed somewhat, — has eaten 
some kind of forbidden fruit, — has speculated, perhaps, 
beyond what is proper. He is constantly running, at 
the slightest noise, under the rose-bushes, or hiding his 
head in some dark corner. Whether he is a little 
cracked, as we say, or has only been turned out of 
church, it is difficult to say : not unlikely, he has been 
doing some dirty action, which has put all hen-dom in 
indignation. It is, perhaps, with some such suspicion, 
that my wife who is sometimes fearfully cruel, says to 
mo, " wring his neck, Zarry ; he's a bad character." 

A fine day for the httle white pig in his warm box ! 
Having his breakfast and a bed of straw, he is satisfied. 
He does not ask for sunshine : he asks for corn and 
boiled potatoes, and he will not refuse sweet apples, if 
you have them. Having his fill of these, he rejoices in 



134 Up-Country Letters. 

such weather. Go to him, except at his hours for eating, 
and he will hardly look at you. Buried to the very nose 
in straw, if he says a word, it will be, — " Don't bother 
me : I'm just having a nice nap : — rains, eh ? well : let 
it rain ; but I say — let me kn,ow, when it's time for 
supper." 

Whether the butcher comes on such a day is rather 
important. It is not pleasant to be thrown back upon 
the remains of yesterday. But, dinner secured, the house 
well banked, the inn-door arrangements all complete, 
the wood-pile well stored, and the coal-bin well filled ; 
(my wife would add here, the dining-room curtains 
well hung), and no impertinent intrusions possible, 
as to next week's necessities — in such case, sir, the 
weather is enjoyable. I write under such auspices at 
this time. On these days, I draw up to my table by 
the southwest window, which is comfortably near the 
fire, and yet wholly aside from the sweep of the gentle 
people, and here, perhaps, I read over your last letter ; 
write one or two myself, and do up my odd correspond- 
ence, leaving legitimate matters for other times. I ran- 
sack the old secretary, and find marvels and ancient 
wonders, laid away in dark drawers : things, which I 
had forgotten, but which are still fresh and fi-agrant of 
pleasant days. Then we promenade somewhat, begin- 



The Last of November. 135 

ning at the picture of the cottage, and bringing up at 
the end of the hall. One way we have the cottage in 
prospect, the whole distance, and a sweet little water 

picture below it by my friend the celebrated , who 

so abuses my Claude. In the other case, we reverse the 
climax, by passing the hall stove, a beautiful cylinder, in 
high polish, on the top of which is a boiler, that holds a 
bucket and a half of water, from which wreaths of vapor 
are constantly sailing about, and rising into the still 
chambers overhead, making the air soft as the tropics. 
Doors are always open into all the rooms, where summer 
reigns continually. By summer, I mean a temperature 
of 650 to YQo, the exactness of which I am able to main- 
tain, not without some vigilance. I have six thermom- 
eters scattered about, and to keep them at the same mark, 
is a pleasant annoyance, almost equal to my ftxther's, in 
keeping his watch, and the noon-mark, and the old 
kitchen clock, all telling the same time. 

After a modest dinner, on a day like this, (for mod- 
estly you must dine always, when you dine at the 
country hours, of one or two o'clock), and three mouth- 
fuls of cigar smoke, the nap in the big chair is perhaps 
the most profound abstract of all possible comforts under 
the sun : and it is more profound and more abstract in 
an untold degree, because it rains such great guns out- 



136 Up-Country Letters. 

doors. Unless Bob wakes me, coming througli to keep 
up the fires, I can do fi-om one to two hours with entire 
ease. By this time it gets dark pretty rapidly, and we 
have to bustle about to get the necessary airing before 
tea ; and so goes the day. 

Lfy father manages his hours with a difference. He 
breakfasts by candlelight, and by twelve o'clock has 
dined, and is deep in the morning paper. Contrariwise, 
if we get breakfast well over by nine o'clock, we feel ra- 
ther proud of it. Our naps are the only things which 
coincide. At say three o'clock, p. m., there is an hour 
or two of a midsummer stillness, all through the house. 
By this time Mrs. P. has disappeared into some house- 
hold privacy, and Tidy is up-stairs, just keeping herself 
awake by some little song, or snatch of an opera. Any 
one, then, coming in on tiptoe, would find your humble 
servant stretched out at an angle of about forty-five de- 
grees, before a comfortable fire, clean gone in whatever 
dream may be u2:)permost at the moment, and with a 
look, I fancy, of having dined satisfactorily. By going 
a step further into that old-fashioned room, with the 
oven, and boiler, and the old clock, and the queer old 
pictures and engravings on the wall, and the two dogs 
fost asleep on the sofa, — this tiptoe observer would find 
my father equally mute and still in his easy-chair before 



The Last of November. 137 

a carefully-built fire ; his hat on, but tipped back on the 
top of the chair, and his countenance almost rigid with 
a certain severity of look, suggestive of old revolutionary 
times, and hard life in the woods, years and years long 
gone by, — on Avhich old-fashioned matters and times, 
the chance is that his dream is now running. 

When he wakes, after an hour or so, he will turn to 
Kate, who has been going about veiy softly, and ask, if 
he has been asleep : then looking at the clock he per- 
ceives that an hour or so has slipped away ; and the 
time was, when such a discovery would have made him 
very indignant ; but now, few thing's surprise my fether, 
and if the day is heavy, the odds are, he will take ano- 
ther nap. 

So, my fiiend, goes a day in November. 

Yours, Z. P. 



Winltt 



I. 



Up-Conntry, December, 1850. 

My father is a man of method : method and system, 
times, places, and proprieties. The afternoon nap-hour 
is probably not on his list, as he does not consider that 
to be sleep, but a kind of solemn abstraction : an abstrac- 
tion which arrives, however, with the inevitableness of 
three o'clock, unless some business intervene ; and busi- 
ness "has no business" at Pundison House. It is by- 
gone. " \Mien I was in business," is one of my father's 
exordiums ; but it refers, always, to more than forty years 
ago. 

It is at this dark time of the year, and in these short 
days, that my father begins the day with candle-light. 
His breakfast is by this light. 

Not that he retires early, or has important aflaire on 
hand for the day. He retires very late ; and our affairs, 
as aforesaid, are of the past. But it is his way. 



142 Up-Country Letters, 

It is absolute and without reference. It pleases Lim 
so to do ; and being done, if any action is required, he 
is ready. There is something healthy and bracing in a 
good start. There can hardly be a surprise to the day 
that begins with candle-light. All events within ordi- 
nary vision and sagacity will be forewitnessed — seen 
coming — and if they are not liked, can be switched off 
the track. Years are added to life by early rising, not 
because the times of sleep are of special importance, but 
from this tonic of readiness for events. With my father 
there may be some connection with j)leasant reminis- 
cences of early life. 

My own memory of breakfasts by candle-light, is 
shivering with the chilliness of cold rooms : cold and 
large rooms, with blazing fires, the edge of the frost not 
yet removed, but getting delightfully warm just as you 
have to go out into the keen air — to some out-door 
work of an hour or more, before it will be daybreak — 
or on a trip to the mountains for a load of firewood, of 
which there must be four loads in the yard before sun- 
set — or a start on a long three days' journey behind 
heavy team-horses, with a load of wheat or iron for the 
market. In this memory is the relish of cold dinners, 
from the meat-box at the country taverns, with a glass 
of cider for table privilege — ^the deep sleep at night, or, 



Method at Pundison House. 143 

if in summer, the long, long day, in whicli to rest and 
sleep, and all the cool night for the drive. 

One other candle-light memory is of books, and the 
lamp, and the chapel-bell ! but of the two, the first, as 
it is the brightest, so it is the more airy and pleasant. 

But we are talking now of Pundison House and my 
father. After his breakfast, the day divides itself — pre- 
cisely as the clock divides it — in houi-s, halves, and 
quarter ; in which, at the proper time, letters are 
received and answered — the newspaper glanced at only, 
the more careful readino; being: reserved for after dinner 
— and if the weather is very severe, verses are written in 
a recess, w^est of the great chimney which stands bodily 
in the room, six feet by ten, having in the rear a brist- 
ling array of augurs, files, hammer, broad-axe, and saw. 
Rarely before dinner is a book taken in hand. If 
wanted, there are the Life of Newton, Dwight's Sermons^ 
in six volumes, the Lives of Napoleon, all that ever were 
written, and of his Marshals, aU that ever were written 
or imagined : in short, all and every thing in reference 
to Napoleon Buonaparte — with the Lives of Hayden, 
Beethoven, and Mozart : — all which are read through as 
often as may be desirable, but never considered quite 
done with. They are kept, like Scott's Commentaries, 
always at hand, where they can be reached in a moment. 



144 Up-Countuv Letters. 

For diversions, my father occasionally looks through 
books of travel and adventure, provided oath can be 
taken that there is nothing of the Novel in them. 

" All lies," says my father, speaking of fiction, 
" nothing but lies, fire, murder, and brimstone. What 
I want, sir, is truth : truth, action, and energy, but 
always truth : or, if it's a sermon, let it be upon death^ 
judgment^ and eternityP 

A copy of Munchausen, by some chance, got into 
my father's room, not long since, and his astonishment 
and Avrath, after reading a few pages, was so inexpressi- 
ble, that he was obliged to convey it all in a look — a 
look of which I had the benefit, and shall not soon for- 
get. The weather, at our house, is a theme of interest 
My father has three thermometers — exclusive of mine, 
which he considers of no account — one in his bedroom, 
and one on each side of the house, north and south. 
They are examined at all times of day — never passed 
without examination; but the first and last looks are 
naturally the most interesting. It is like saying " Good | 
morning," or " Good night," to a pleasant companion, j 
Great efforts are made that those thermometers outside, 
should harmonize, like as the clock, the watch, and the 
meridian maik ; but not always with success. In timeS' 
of high wind from the north or south, the difference will '• 



Method at Pundison House. 145 

sometimes be as great as ten degrees. This, at our 
house, becomes a marked event, and gives quite an air 
of bustle to the day. It is int^uired into, and never suf- 
fered to rest until the whole matter is made clear. 

At high noon, by the clock and the meridian mark, 
my father dines. Variations are made of fifteen minutes 
sooner, or later, but not for any one day : if made, they 
are for certain weeks, or periods ; after which the original 
hour returns again. 

Supper at five o'clock, and at twelve my father re- 
tires. This is the winter arrangement ; and our winter 
includes March. At the 1st of i\pril, the hour for retir- 
ing is at half-past eleven ; at the 1st of May, eleven — 
the even hour. The hours for breakfast, correspondingly, 
one half, and an hour earlier. By twelve for retiring, I 
mean — not ten minutes before or after, but the precise 
point of midnight, for which — the meridian mark being 
j of no use at niglit — the watch and clock are consulted. 
I At eleven o'clock, I walk into my father's room, and sit 
! with him until the day is finished. If he is quite well, 
I conversation ensues — statements and discussions, with 
proper pauses for reflection. But if not veiy well, there 
is no consciousness of my presence ; an occasional look, 
.' but nothing more. As the hands approach the twelve 
I mark, my father, without rising, lifts his candle towards 



146 Up-Country Letters. 

the face of the clock, and notes its progress. This action 
is repeated a second or third time, and five minutes be- 
fore that mark is reached, boks and bars are adjusted, 
vacant rooms are visited without a light, and smelt at 
with some violence, as to possible fires ; a look is made 
down and up the cellar and chamber stairs, with the 
same intent and action — and my father retires to his 
room. After a few moments he re-appears, as if to re- 
view the fact that he is now retiring ; takes a last look 
at the south thermometer, a last glance at the fire — and 
Pundison House is at rest. Any jar, step, or concus- 
sion, would now be an alarm, reported at once by the 
dogs, who take charge from this time to candle-light 
again, of the next day. Such, sir, is the way we have 
in this remote up-country. Each day is fairly and fully 
begun, and as fairly and fully completed. No fragment 
left : no fragment lost — not even the naps, as they are 
part of the arrangement. Tempus fiigit is true, sir : 
but nothing to be dreaded or courted ; — but to be let 
alone. It is right as it is. If time moves, move with 
it; and no matter what the speed — the tremendous 
propulsion — the whirlwind of motion — you, yourself, 
will be calm as the Polar star. These last remarks, sir, 
are very profound: I have gaped twice in trying to 
fathom their depths. Good night. Z, P. 



II. 



I WAS dining at a public table, last summer, when a 
young lady came in, and taking a seat directly opposite 
to mine, began to push against my feet,, and to pound 
them, this Avay and that, Avith considerable force. As 
the table was narrow, and I was braced back a little, she 
had a fair field for whatever combative performances she 
might choose to get up. I saw that she was wholly un- 
conscious of what she was about, but having nothing 
else to do, I concluded to wait till her consciousness 
returned. After some little time, the event took place. 
She had been talking a perfect rattle of nonsense witli 
her left-hand neighbor, when she suddenly stopped, and 
lifting the table-cloth, looked carefully underneath, and 
there, sir, ])ut her amazed eyes upon the undoubted 
boots of a man. Her confusion was immense : whereas 



148 Up-Countey Letters, 

she had been white as snow, she became suddenly as 
scarlet. I looked the other way with a command of 
countenance, which I thought at the time, herculean ; 
but it was of no use. It was plain that I was cognizant 
of the whole transaction ; — the pounding, and the disco- 
very, and the confusion of face. With a courage worthy 
of a woman, she staid through dinner, but her color 
was fixed for the day. 

Now, Professor, — I have been sending you all man- 
ner of detail, and prosy what-nots of family and neigh- 
borly matters, in a kind of exuberance of material ; and, 
as it Avere, for the sake of pounding somebody. Sud- 
denly it has occurred to me to query, if you really care 
to be so pounded : not unlikely you may Avish to dine 
quietly, and in your old way. If so, say the word, and 
I cease. 

I remember me also of your dignity, and how un- 
likely it is, that you will care to be flourished about in 
this vagabond manner. A broad light has been thrown 
upon the high importance of your avocation, by a letter 

of Lieut. 's. It is upon the subject of Dr. Clark's 

contrivance, for cheeking on his magnetic clock, cen- 
trally from all imaginable distances, (wire-strung, that 
is to say, — and made one by lightning,) the arrivals and 
departures, of your sky-travellers. The astounding sud- 



Star-Catching, 149 

denness of those transactions must require nerve of a 
firm texture. It's what might be called walking up to 
the chalk — or, as the Lieut. Avould sav, to the — spider- 
lines. 

I imagine you en meridian, when a big world comes 
bowhng down the heavens, that a little while ago, was 
off Boston ; and a lesser while off New- York, and now is 
wheeling swiftly on, — glorious to behold — to pass over 
your lightning radiated city. I imagine you, — my ex- 
cellent friend, my star-catcher, — posed in your jockey- 
chair, with one hand gi-asping the lightning, and the 
other pointing the huge cylinder up into heaven to catch 
the sunbeam — (are you there, sir ? be quick, my deal* 
Professor, or we shall be too late), the sunbeam, that 
started on its journey thousands of years ago, and now 
is coming, coming, coming, — (are you holding your 
breath ? are you stilling the beat of your heart ? for we 
arc hard on) — tally-ho ! tally-ho ! tally-ho ! ready — 

Fire ! And on goes that immense sun, — one 

of God's great creatures, — (timed however for all eter- 
nity,) with its family of swiffc-roUing worlds about it ; 
but all dark in the infinite distance! Ralhcr high and 
lofty business this : something solemn-like. Don't you 
hear a kind of low thunder, — very low, — very deep, — 
as they go by ? Do you ever open the window, and 



150 Up-Country Letters. 

sliout, — (rather, do you not fall to the gi-ound, and say 
it with trembling utterance) — 

iDUtlEJu!] ! lallcltiia!) ! for tjje f arli <Bflli dbnmipftnt rEigtiett) I 

And how, sir, after checkmating a star, do you man- 
age to get down to our old-fashioned world, and the City 
of Washington, and the street before the door ? and are 
you there when you get there ? Street-walking, without 
knocking people over, eating, drinking, whistling — (you 
whistle, I hope, as' well as ever, — I wouldn't lose my 
whistling for gold, — I was going to say for books :) all 
these, with money -thinking, and world affairs generally, 
must seem rather tame. Do you ever dream. Professor ? 
Do you sometimes imagine yourself swinging off into 
the " magnificent " upper distances, and somebody look- 
ing at you, through a bai-rel ? How did you perform ? 
How did 3-0U gyrate, so to speak, in that tumultuous 
outside, that still and solemn universality of things ? 

Did you carry out Kepler ? Did you go according 
to Galileo ? How were the squares of the distances ? 
How looked the sun, and the moon, and did you de- 
cide any thing special in regard to matters and things 
in general ? I imagine you, alighting from such a trip ; 
your black e}' es blacker than ever ; your laugh more 
than ever rotund ; and your whole face sparkling with | 
the wonders there seen. 



Star-Catching. 151 

But in these outside journeys, have you ever dropped 
down tlirougli the rather various gold-dust and diamonds 
of the universe, down, down, and for ever down, till you 
arrive at what seems the veritable outer dartness ; and 
even there, have been suddenly blinded, by the sweep 
of the long tail of some world erratic, whose doom is, — 
for ever and for ever to play, like a shuttle, in and out of 
that black and bottomless abyss? Have you been 
there I 

Never fear, oh man of science, that we shall put step 
intrusive upon your dominions. Not even imaginatively 
will we travel in those parts : but rather will return, as 
we do now, to our winter-housed comforts, and wait our 
time before we play with the stars. 

Good-bye, Z. P. 



m. 

Oh cool-headed and fer-seeing Professor, broad and liigli- 
browed, and black-eyed as tbe midnight — the same 
whose avocation is star-catching, and whose lofty thoughts 
are rotary for ever : does it ever happen to you, to be 
waylaid in your thought-journeys, and carried away cap- 
tive ? — to ride a high horse, and never know where he 
will land you, or when he will give rest to your bones ? 
— ^to be not quite mad, because you see your way, and 
have power, except to stop the prodigious propulsion ! 
Worse than this, are you ever conscious of time, without 
being conscious of consecutive thought ? Now to dream, 
— is to go away with an angel who shows you pleasant 
lands, and promises of glory which some day shall be 
fulfilled. To reverise, is to go with some dear friend, 
who has the gift of painting, in an exquisite manner, all 



Tib, and Good-bye to Jenny. 153 

things which else would be cold and lifeless : and to 
travel through a mathematical problem is a charming 
intellectual exercise, in which, however, you are your 
own master, and by no means forget your identity. But 
to sit motionless, and have thought present itself to yovi, 
— like pigs' feet, — cut ofl'from all association ; fragments, 
and not bodies, — to conceive of all things as original 
atoms, and never be able to put two things together : 
this, sir, is a state of mind, which though you may 
doubt, is still possible, in certain curious conditions of 
the nervous S3'stem. I speak from the book. I do not 
say, that this is probably a form of punishment in the 
infernal regions ; but that a sufficient Hell might be so 
made, is very plain ; i. e., so far as relates to punishment, 
not embodied as a consequence ; a thing of perhaps 
doubtful existence. If you say that our Tib is in such a 
condition, you miss the mark, although you make a fair 
shot. I will tell you how it is with Tib : she thinks 
only when she has occasion. If you ask what she does, 
when she is not thinking, I reply, by asking, — what do 
you ? Do you do as well ? for she is busy. All day long 
she is chewing her cud ; and here you see, sir, how hap- 
pily all things are contrived for her. If she had more 
mind than she has, it would be a great annoyance, — if 
she had less, she could hardly take care of herself. She 
1* 



154 Up-Country Letters. 

has no houses to build, — no need of them ; no clothing 
to provide, — being already provided; all, for which she 
has thought, or any need of thought, is a pasture in 
which to graze and chew, and some dark corner, half a 
mile in the woods, in which to calve. Her life is there- 
fore wholesome as her milk, and as harmless; and 
when she is cut up, after being well iatted, nothing is 
finer than her sirloins ; juicy, and tender, and generous, 
like herself. 

But the cow has her whimsies, as I shall show you. 
You know. Professor, that all respectable and high-bred 
cows, calve about once a year ; usually in the early spring. 
Tib had her calf, as usual, last spring, and as usual, it 
was taken from her, after a week or so. This is, per- 
haps, the most exciting part of Tib's life : for such is her 
fury on these occasions, that we are obliged to shut her 
in the stable, carefully hiding which way the calf is 
taken ; — as that way she would take, over whatever hin- 
drances. She has often been down a twenty-foot bank, 
in the rear of the grove, but by what miracle to arrive at 
the bottom alive, nobody has been present to witness. 
For a day or two, and sometimes for a week, after the 
calf is taken away, the cow goes about in a melancholy 
and half-distracted manner, giving out honid ejacula- 
tions, and nmning at every thing which has the renio 



Tib, and Good-bye to Jenny. 156 

test resemblance to a calf. But after a few clays, these 
die away into low wails, — and in the sweetness of the 
new grass, she forgets, at last, that she is a mother, or 
apparently forgets, and nearly all day, you will see her 
sitting on the very pinnacle of the little knoll in the east 
pasture, (for I speak not now of the solstitial heats, when 
she goes down under the hickories), and looking, al- 
ways, to the rising sun. Tliere sat Tib, this last summer, 
as she had for many summers before, and was to all ap- 
pearance content and cheerful. It was now about two 
months after her calf had been j-emoved, Avhen one moi-n- 
ing, I walked out into the pasture, and there saw, in the 
astonished gaze of the whole world, this same little Tib, 
being suckled b}' a great black calf, which had broken 
in from a neighbor's premises ! As you may suppose, 
iny indignation, not less than my amazement, was ex- 
cessive. But what was wondeiful, sir, she refused to 
give up the big booby. In short, there was nearly the 
same time, and trouble, in creating this divorce, that 
there had been in taking away her little heifer ; which, by 
the way, was, like herself, of a beautiful red. Now, how 
could she imagine this black rascal to be her little red 
heifer? But here I remark, that perhaps she did'nt. 
Tib is no fool ; but if she has a fault, it is her extraordi- 
nary benevolence. And I take this position : she prob- 



156 Up-Country Letters. 

ably said to herself: — " Bless my soul and body ! look at 
that calf! — but it's not my little heifer, — the black rascal, 
he comes up to me as though I was his luother. He is 
a bold fellow ! there he is nosing and butting about ; — 
upon my word — modest, eh ? Ah well, my good people, 
while I'm a cow, and there's calves abroad, here's break- 
fast for all !" 

Have I told you that Jenny is gone ? aye, sir, gone ! 
I have sent her to my cousin, the squire. Johnny, who 
is at a neighbor's, took her to the station, and put her 
on the cai'S, ' neatly blanketed, and with a clean halter, 
labelled " Jenny of the Vine Leaves, for the Squire at' 
the Falls of the Rattle-down, Old Connecticut." The 
Squire is well acquainted with all her ways, and prom- 
ises to take care of her. She is, as it were, retired from 
life : for years, I have used her but rarely, and now she 
is to devote herself entirely to domestic matters. In 
short, I have already spoken for the first colt. Think, 
sir, of a colt from Jenny, — a young lightning, — a swift 
embodiment of nerve and fancy, kicking up his heels 
under those gi-and old mountains ! Some people ques- 
tion, whether being in her latter days, and a horse of 
such high imagination, the having a colt may not fright- 
en her out of her wits. I can imagine her trembling, 
and staring with a mute look of awe and wonder, at the 



Tib. and Good-Bve to Jennv. 157 

apparition ; but, sir, when she appreciates the fact, that 
this is bone of her bone, and flesh of her flesh, how 
bright will be the pasture, that morning — how sunny all 
the world ! She will behave herself with the dignity of 
a mother ; — but if that youngster ever gets to imagine 
that he is doing any great thing, as he flourishes about 
the lots, how will sheundeceive the lad, — for the fact is, 
tlie mare never will be old : especially now that she is to 
have colts, and to lead a pastoral life, for the rest of her 
days. 

Good-bye, Jenny : never again shall I go over your 
head, in a somerset, as I did so often, years and years 
ago. I am safe fi'om that, and you are let out into 
sweet grasses, and young peas, and all good things, for 
the rest of your life. But, by and bj', as the years roll 
on, you will, some day, wander away up the hill side, 
and there lie down for the last time, under the big apple 
tree by the lane ; and by that time, perhaps, or sooner, 
I shall have done with looking on, in this swift-footed 
life^ and the light of the river and the pastm-e will have 
faded away. Good-bye: good-bye. 



IV. 

^alli Mill tlje |r0fcssijr, 

Cp-Connlry, December, 1850. 

Coming down from looldng at the heavens, and spying 
into tlie uttermost parts of the universe, you have 
flattered me, sir, that it aifords you a pleasant recreation 
to look into our small sayings and doings, which I send 
you so feithfully : and so we make a happy exchange. 
I send you an up-country incident, and you return me a 
star of the first magnitude : for a large piece of gossip, 
you send me up one of those pretty waifs that are float- 
ing about the sky ; and if I were to overj)ower you with 
good things, I suppose you would ofier me nothing less 
than the milky way. But don't send it now : I will 
ask for it when I want it. I wish now to keep within 
my own beat. And let us hope, sir, it is no reflection 
upon one's manhood, if, after trying our hand in the 
world's doings, we step aside for a little while, and look 



Talk with the Professor. 159 

on. Tliere is no harm in taking breath. Whether I 
shall adventure again, ever, is a question ; as it is a 
question whether I shall ever be able to clotho this 
body with sufficient strength to bear such adventure. 
But, I confess, even here in the quiet up-country, to 
occasional ambitions for that old excitement, the rough 
and tumble of life — the up and the down — and the 
" chassee all" — and that glorious " hands all round." I 
would like, too, to do battle with those ugly mischiefs 
which the de^^l has wound about us, and to do some 
good in the world before the day I die. But I am 
crippled, sir, and must be content with the playthings 
of life. Even small things sometimes stagger me, and 
the most belittled enterprise becomes mountainous. But 
God will take care of the world, and of its people ; and 
in good time all will be right. Bustle and huny gain 
nothing. What is the use of time if it be not to build 
up and restore, and make perfect all things ? but it 
must be done slowly, or all time would need be but a 
day. Ail who have ever lived and died, and all who 
ever will live, might have been born this morning, and 
have had plenty of time to get on to the next world, 
comfortably, before sundown. But time implies some- 
thing to be done. 

How found you the world, sir, what time you went 



160 Up-Country Letters. 

cruising up and down the high, seas ; summering in 
that lazy Mediterranean : boar-hunting at Algiers ; or 
medal-hunting at Pompeii; or philosophizing at Con- 
stantinople ; or again, after a three weeks' sail across the 
Atlantic, reverizing under the walls of San Juan d'Ulloa? 
Men and women pretty much the same, all the world 
over ? and little boys and girls, God bless them ! always 
the same : always full of hope and joy, and the golden 
promises; "For of such is the kingdom of heaven." 
And always it was pleasant — was it not, sir — to get 
back to your ship, and to your small routine of duties ; 
for that was home : that was your place for rest, and 
dreams, and reveries. 

"We reverse the case, exactly, but with the same re- 
sults. Having been on a little cruise, we have come 
ashore, and are not sorry for the change : that touch of 
sea-sickness, for instance, we never liked ; to the last, it 
was disagreeable. If you ask why Ave avoid the town, 
I reply that the very idea of rest, implies the country. 
My sympathies go with the mass ; and to be in Broad- 
way and not be of it, is, with me, simply impossible. I 
should be in a whirlwind, and die in two months. But 
the country is sedative ; and to one whose life depends 
upon the avoidance of excitement or deep thought, there ; 
is no medicine that can compare with it. Almost every 



Talk with the Professor. 161 

thing that happens here, happens properly, and with, a 
grace ; ahnost every thing that is clone in groit cities, is 
done hurriedly ; or with gi-eat effort, which is tiresome : 
and awkwardly, which is inharmonious ; and confusedly 
all, crossing, and criss-crossing, ana competing, from 
which result envy, strife, and uncharitableness. But the 
rain and snow, and the night-dews, and the early frosts, 
all come quietly, and subserve, always, some good pur- 
pose. The budding, and leafing, and flowering, and, at 
last, the fruit-making — how gently is it all done. The 
Shag-bark, sometimes, is furious ; but it is with a kind 
of solemn method ; and it takes nothing from, but 
rather adds to, the peace of the landscape. Let him 
rage ; we are at rest. Let him howl ; he does not dis- 
turb little Tib. ' He does not stop the bob-o'links, for so 
much as one quivering moment, as their golden heads 
rise and fall in the long meadow gTass. 

But more than all. Professor, as I gi-ow older, I like 
to see things done decently, and in order. Here, in the 
country, I keep a little in advance of things, always ; 
and am thus able to look each day full and fair in the 
face : and so with the seasons — the changes of the year. 
I delight, for instance, in having arrived at my winter 
routine before December has come. With my winter 
work, if I have any, already begun ; all household 



162 Up-Country Letters. 

arrangements complete, and perfected, and proved, so to 
speak ; and provisos made for break-downs, as loos^ 
spars are carried at sea ; in this happy case, don't you 
see, sir, that the whole month is before us, in all its 
richness ? Rich with winter ; rich with Christmas ;' 
well-timed withal, and not bursting in before we are 
half ready for it ; rich with the night before New Year ji 
and the first snow, and the first sleigh-ride, and, as iti 
happens, this year, rich, overflowingly rich, with thanks- 
giving. Then, there's all January and Februaiy uu 
touched ; and these, if you have had all December, can 
be enjoyed temperately, and at leisure. But if Decem- 
ber is left until Christmas, the odds are, you will havd 
only rioting and confusion for the rest of the winter^ 
Let us have all things in order, and in proper time. 
One star at a time is as much as you can manage, I 
suppose : or, if you have a group, the group is one, not- 
withstanding, and not forty-five. And so, by and by, 
when the March wind has howled his last around the 
north-east corner of the house, and the snow melts froiil 
the pastures, and the young grasses and here and ther0 
some early flower sj)ring out into the warm air and the 
quivering sunlight, the change will be all in good time^ 
and we, too, will walk out, and be thankful that winter 
cannot last for ever. 



Talk with the Professor. 163 

And so, as we see the floAvers and tlie grasses spring 
up from apparent death, let ns he ready, oh ! my friend, 
when comes our winter of Hfe, to lay down our bones 
willingly, and fearlessly : for out of death cometh life ; 
out of decay, cometh beauty ; out of mortality, cometh 
immortality. We shall rise, Professor in the spring. 
Adieu. Z. P. 



1 



V. 



In a house like ours, set apart from all business and 
bustle, and where, from one week to another, we see 
only ourselves, and the little pictures which we get from 
absent friends, the coming of another happy face sug- 
gests at once — thanksgivang. This year has been rich 
with good things to us, and, apart from the last arrival, 
we could easily get up thanksgiving once a week ; but 
the general day being close by, we merge all in the 
great doings of next Thursday. "Joy" arrived last 
evening, and came dowoi this morning with the pro- 
gramme for the day. The guests are to be, Hazelbush, 
the celebrated Apsappleby, who abuses my Claude, and 
the Lady Miriam. If you knew these parties, sir, the 
contemplation of the group would be almost as satisfac- 
tory as dinner itself. It is just what might be expected 



T.: Joy: Lady Miriam. 1G5 

from Joy, who has the rare gift of dohig all things hap- 
pily. T. may have assisted slightly ; as, for instance, I 
suppose, that T. niaj' have suggested Hazelbush ; or, if 
necessary, may have insisted upon Hazelbush. It is 
rare, however, that these sisters differ so much as for 
either one to insist upon any thing. They melt, usually, 
into one opinion upon all subjects. But they have little 
ways, which are slightly diverse. I say slightly, for I 
cannot conceive that two persons whose voices I cannot 
distinguish from each other, can be very different at 
heart 

But I will tell you. As their names imply, the one 
is quiet and musing ; the other brilliant, but slightly 
shaded. To look upon T.'s face when entirely at rest, 
you would imagine her to be saying over, privately, 
some little prayer — half unconsciously, as children talk 
to themselves out among the dandelions, in May morn- 
ings. She Kves apart, as it were, in a little chapel (a 
wheel within a wheel), but always sits by a window, 
where she can look out and see if any body is coming ; 
in which case she steps out softly, and is immediately 
before you : you would hardly know that she had been 
away ; so calm and responsive is she, to your look or 
your question. Joy, on the contrary, is always in the 
world, and of it, that is, all that is cheerful and happy, 



1G6 Up-Counthy Letters. 



1 



and tlianksgiving : for as dartness cannot penetrate, 
light, so it would seem, that in her presence, pain ancf 
unhappiness refuse to exist. If you only look at her^ 
she smiles involuntarily ; and always at the corner of^ 
her eyes may be seen a laugh ready to spring out, lib 
sheet-lightning just over the horizon. If T. has thi 
look of prayer, Joy has the look of praise. Of Tidy, 
have given you some outlines in times past : she par- 
takes of both characters, and is entirely by herself; witla 
them, but still apart. But all three have the gift of a 
happy laugh, which makes music for all the house 
Slightest things cause it ; and sometimes so slight, thai 
it is a curious puzzle to me to ferret it out. As, foi 
instance, Avhen we are all about the round table at tea 
— after the first cup, — there will be seen, suddenly, slight 
flashes between those three faces, which betoken a crisis 
I have never discovered that it is any brilliant thin^ 
which I may have said, or any unconscious wit of mine 
but, at once, and without cause, T. will go oft' in a violeni 
laugh ; suppressing it, convulsively, till, at last, she gets 
a little wild-like ; at Avhich moment. Tidy, who has 
great self-command, rises and strikes her gently on the 
back till she slowly recovers herself. 

Joy, in the mean time, is almost gone, but not quite : 
she seems to pause, as it Avere, upon the brink, and in 



I 



T.: Joy: Lady Miriam. 167 

this inanuer keeps lier complexion toned in a proper de- 
gree. Doubtless, tliey know what it's all about. In 
some occult and incomprehensible manner (for the intui- 
tion of these people is as lightning), they catch at some 
little incongruity, and go off as aforesaid. After look- 
ing on a little while, at such times, I usually withdraw 
to my easy chair in the corner, and lose myself in a 
newspaper, or some new book ; for, of course, I can have 
no possible sympathies in any thing so dark and myste- 
rious as those laughs. I do not know that there is any 
slight tinge of jealousy in the feeling Avith which I re- 
sign myself to the paper, or the book, as aforesaid ; and 
that, too, without asking one solitary question to throw 
light upon the matter. But I may say to myself — if 
the Lady ^Miriam were here, they would hai'dly have 
seen so much to laugh at. Not that the Lady ^Miriam 
does not enjoy a laugh : she is a perfect embodiment 
of happiness and high content ; but the Lady Miriam 
never gets wild: never. Like Joy, she keeps herself 
within bounds. In Lady ^Miriam you are not to under- 
stand a faultless character, but one who so hides her 
faults, if she have any, that one never can find them. 
Dressed always perfectly and richly, she is one of those 
persons, also, upon whom any thing, however careless, 
looks exceedingly well : only, the Lady ^t. never wears 



168 Up-Country Letters. 



|i 



any such careless thing : by no possibihty is she ever 
seen in such predicament. Always calm, and sell-pos- 
sessed, and in the world, it is still evident that she 
breathes a high and pure atmosphere ; and at all times, 
and in all places, is serene and happy as a star. Do 
you not begin to see. Professor, that here is a rich group- 
ing for thanksgiving ? I have told you of Hazelbush, 
and I will only say of Aps Appleby, that widely apart as 
is his lite from us all, yet we are in flae same sphere, as 
the phrase is. For large-minded as is Aps Appleby, he 
is in a still higher degree large-hearted, and loves to 
come down out of the far away world of beauty, which 
is almost his continvxal dwelling-place, and have a little 
talk with realities, and shapes of flesh and blood. I 
have long ago forgiven him those hard words about my 
Claude. I shall seat him, however, facing that very pic- 
ture. Lady ]\Iiriam will sit opposite him : then Hazel- 
bush, and Joy, T., Tidy, and myself. You see. Profes- 
sor, there is just one seat left for yourself. Fail not, sir^ 
in completing our circle. Yom'S, Z. P. 



VI. 

December, Up-Country, 

Manifold reasons for more tlianksgiving, have just 
arrived, my charming Professor, all in one parcel, 
package, manuscript, what you please ; and all the 
way by express, by day and by night, I'or these last 
immortal fourteen days that suiiered it to pass, — this 
parcel, package, manus(*ript, bill of lading, and log-book 
for ever ! 

And what is it ? say you. News, sir, news, from 
over seas ! News from Frank and Fanny, who are safe 
on the other shore. Safe over ! Hurrah ! Do you hear, 
sir ? And that parcel, package, log-book, — it is as fat 
as an octavo : sixty pages of such a looking scrawl as 
you never saw. I shall send you, here and there, a 
little of it, if I ever get an opportunity ; as yet, I have 
8 



170 Up-CountPvY Letters. 

scarcely looked at it. T. and Tidy have possession, and 
keep possession. They laugh and cry over it, as it 
seems to me, without much occasion. Tidy has it bound, 
alread)^, in red ribbons and a cover ; and at night, 
puts it under her pillow, thinking, if left below, some 
burglar (we have burglars you know) might carry 
it off with the notion that it was some valuable docu- 
ment. 

Do you suppose the papers themselves are very re-* 
markable, that my people laugh and cry as aforesaid t 
All wrong, if you do. Women have seven reasons, al- 
ways, for every thing they do. One, and prominent in 
this case, is, that the papers arp directed to them. Can 
you think of any other? Of course not. For what do 
you know, by any possibility, about women ? you, who, 
are bachelor bachelorum / I tell you, sir, that until yoU 
marry, you are in utter darkness : darkness, — and deso^ 
lation ! * ' 

I have just read this to my wife, who has been sit- 
ting here, reading the log-book. At first, she looked at 
me very bewilderingly, being half-seas over, with Frank 
and Fanny : but arriving at last, in sight of land, has 
given me the manuscript, and walked off in a kind of 
hali-dream, the unsnarling of which, will cost hei- at 
least a half hour's looking out the window. I take the 



News from Frank. l^l 

chance, therefore, of giving you the opening of the log : 
but, before you are lost in this, forget not, sir, our next 
Tliursday ; turhey will be on the table at three, pre- 
cisely. Yours, Z. P. 



VII. 



I. 



Ship , off Newfuundland, 1 

Fhdfty, Dec, 1850. j 



Dear T. : — Good morning ! Good morning to you all 
in the up-country, and may God give you tliankful 
hearts, that you have a position in the world, and a 
firmament in the heavens. One must speak quick now, 
and to the point. This is no time for painful particulars. 
But still I wish to repeat this good morning. I distin- 
guish it, thus, from days which have plunged and reared 
in such headlong confusion, as quite to destroy any 
special time of day. All times have been one — in dark- 
ness and distraction. 

In this little breathing-time, I am happy to say that 
we have a morning bright and sunny as a day in the 
tropics, although we are on the Newfoundland Banks — 
hard by the North Pole, as I have always supjjosed. 

We are now, my dear people, in the roll of a calm. 



Frank's Log-Book. 1*73 

We are taldng various observations of these ^>arts. It 
is very still and solemn. What there is new to be seen 
does not appear upon the face of things ; but, doubtless, 
something is to turn up. The ship is constantly atti- 
tudinizing, and looking, anxiously, for new views. The 
huge creature seems almost distracted with its gi-eatness 
and variety of effort ; still seeking " the unattained and 
dim." To lookers-on, like us, it seems almost absurd — 
and quite unpleasant. To go on — ah, yes — to go on — 
that would be to attain the " imattained," and to make 
Hght " the dim." Take the lesson, my excellent friends, 
and never roll in one spot, like an apple in a bowl ; for 
you will arrive at nothing but nausea and madness. 

We are just up, for the first time, from our state- 
rooms. For a whole week we have been engaged be- 
low, in certain exacting duties; solemn and urgent: 
and, even now, I can but say this one word, and retire 
again. 

Oh, very serious — serious, exceedingly — is this sail- 
ing " on the oshun." Good-bye. See you again, some 
day, perhaps, before we touch on Ould England : if not, 
farewell 1 F. B. 

n. 

Saturday. Another charming day in state-room, No. 
11, with curtains drawn tight, and a buttle of hot water 



174 Up-Country Letters. 

at my feet, trying to coax down an inveterate head- 
ache ; and, at last, it is gone. I have been on deck, 
wandering about the ship hke a ghost, looking at the 
sunset, and the sea breaking in from the southwest ; 
with just enough breeze to be delightful, and just enough 
motion to be graceild, and take us along towards Eng- 
land about six knots an hour : and all this is pleasant. ! 

Did you get our letters from off quarantine ? Ah, 
my dear up-countries, what a day was that ! I, doubt- 
less, told you that the day was stormy ; but I could not 
have given you any thing like an adequate expression 
of the gloom which seemed to overhang the ship, as we: 
went down the bay. 

For two daj's the sky had been dense and dark ; a 
furious storm driving in from the southeast, and the 
rain falling in quantities. On Friday, at eleven, we 
were to sail : but the storm still continued, and to go to 
sea, then, seemed to most of us like madness. The 
captain thought we should " lie to" at quarantine ; but 
on we went, till just after dinner, the shore passenger! 
were called up to go on board the steamer. Shortly 
after, Fanny and I put on our storm-coats, and went on 
deck. The steamer had cast off, and was out towing 
ahead, bobbing up and down, and throwing her chim- 
neys this way and that, at a prodigious rate. 



I 



Frank's Log-Book. 175 

No one knew what we were about, and it was get- 
ting dark rapidly. Some said we were heading out : 
others, that we had turned about, and were going back ; 
and as proof oi that, there was Coney Island on the right. 
I asked the captain, who replied, " The ship is in the 
hands of the pilot." But on we went somewhere, and 
the sailors were getting on sail, in their merry way, with 
a chorus of — " Yo, heave oh, oh, cheerily." 

We went out on the slippery deck, and Fanny 
pointed up, with a shudder, at one of the sailors, who 
was swinging about, high up on the fore-top-gallant- 
sail yard. He was bending over, and nearly at the end 
of the yard ; and, at that height, looked like a mere 
boy. 

Shortly after this, there was the cry of " Man over- 
hoard P^ and a rush of men aft, to the ship's boat. The 
poor fellow had fallen from that high yard, straight 
down into the sea ; and before the boat was lowered, he 
was iar away in the distance struggling for his life. 
One or two sprang into the rigging, and cheered on the 
men. " Pull away, boys, pull away, heart]/ — there he 
is again — right in the wake of the ship — he's swimming 
yet, pull away, boys ;" but, all this time, the ship was 
going on, though the steamer had gone about ; and 
now the small boat and the steamer were far away, dim 



1Y6 Up-Country Letters. 

and indistinct ; and now directly again, they were seen 
pulling back, but there was no merry cheer for us. He 
was not there. They had seen him for awhile, and then 
missed him, and then he Avas in sight again, but soon 
they missed him again. He had gone down in the 
cold, cold waters ; and they saw him no more. 

As we thought of the friends who, perhaps, had 
parted from him within the hour — the mother, or the 
sister, or, perhaps, the wife — whose good-bye tears were 
not yet dry, and who — it mio-ht bfi — were even now 
praying that God would take care of him, and bring 
him safe home again — our own hearts went down within 
us, as though following his still warm body down to its 
cold, dark grave. Even the ship — the great laboring 
fabric — seemed to be moaning and sorrowing for his loss. 

But on we must go, and away went the steamer! 
again, till we reached the Hook, or thereabouts ; and 
then casting off, we put the ship's head " up" for "Merry 
England." 

There was just wind enough to give us " way," but 
no lifting of the thick, dark clouds ; and the night now 
fell heavy and close over the waters. And, so, as the 
ship rolled slowly out into the night, and on to that vast 
waste of 3,000 miles, there was a touch of something 
awful about it, that made me shudder. 



Frank's Log-Book. 177 

This was a week last night ; and as we had dined, and 
pretty heartil}', we now had a touch of something else. 
It was sudden as death : and nearly as awful. The 
whole universe of thought contracted, in a moment, to 
one spot. Perils of whatever kind, vanished as smoke. 
They had no shadowy existence, even to laugh at : they 
were dead ; or, rather, they never existed. Nor Avas 
there, ever, but one palpable thing in creation. This 
was evident ; and it was equally evident that this one 
thing, the condensed result of all life, all emotion, was 
the old Harry himself, housed in the pit of the stomach. 
All life hitherto, pleasant thoughts, friends, hopes, feai-s, 
were not fictions merely : they were lies ; and we were, 
now, for the first time, engaged in realities. 

The time passed, mostly in long pauses, marked, 
here and there, with interjections, faint and hopeless 
objections, until, at. last, I dropped to sleep. When I 
woke, in the night, we were fairly out to sea, the ship 
rolling to a degree that seemed foolish in the extreme ; 
but walking oft' towards England at ten knots an hour. 
Sky broke up considerably, and a fresh breeze from the 
west-nor'-west. You may ask if we went to breakfast 
that morning ? No, my fl-iends, nor to dinner, nor sup- 
per, nor breakfiist again ; nor again to dinner. But, 
instead, we took horizontal positions, in rooms 10 and 
8* 



1*78 Up-Country Letters. 

11, and there, with heads just so, we had a little 
green tea panada in a teasj^oon, slanting it to the mouth, 
to save the impossible labor of raising the head. 

It is supposed that time passed : as days and nights, 
with mornings attached : the almanac and the ship's 
log have an account, and state that it was so and so — 
as Saturday, Sunday, Monday, and, I think, Tuesday — 
but to us it was — eternity ; not time : i. e. there was no 
succession of events ; it was all one event. To speak, 
to raise the head, or hand — these were Alps to us. At 
last, thought itself, the consciousness of any, the faintest 
outlined conception, became intolerable ; and there only 
was left a vague sense of a sickness that was nigh unto 
death ; but what it might be was too painlU to think 
of, and decide impartially as an honest man should. 

You might be in a shiji (yes, you say, admit that — 
in a ship, but what else ?), and the ship is rolling (roll- 
ing? what is that? oh, I imderstand — I understand 
that — oh, yes, rolling — in a ship rolling), and there's 
something horrid going on (yes, something horrid, very 
horrid) above and below (yes, above and below, and 
every where, and always rolling, you know ; don't for- 
get that), and that's all ? (No, not all.) What else, 
then, if you please ? (The old Harry, you stupid ! the 
old Harry at the pit of the stomach.) Well, then — 



Frank's Log-Book, 179 

just as you like — a rolling ship and the old Harry at 

the . (NO ! stop there — all wrong — no ship — no 

such thing — nor any other thing — mistake — that was 
with the idea that I was alive — mistake — it ain't me 
you are talking about, you foolish individual. I was, 
but that was yesterday. Moreover, where's Tidy ? thaCs 
the question. Answer me that. No, don't answer me 
— don't look at me — don't move — don't move a hair, 
for I'm dead — I had a dream that I was dead, and I per- 
ceive, now, the exact fact — dead — dead.) 

And so, with our little round windows open, letting 
in the air and the sunlight, the day wore away, and 
down again came the night. But not, as the night be- 
fore, dark and wet, but with clouds and stars dashing 
along the sky (for so it looked), and the sea pla}ang 
about us, and hoostlny us out into the deep. All this, 
when the eye could bear to take a look, we could see 
through the windows, first down upon the sea and then 
sweeping far away into the sky, and down again, on 
another tack, to sweep over another field. 

It was Saturday. The light faded slowly, our lamps 
were lit, the windows open, with the sea dashing close 
up to them, and so again we rocked out into the night. 
With the dash of the sea came, now and then, the 
sound of the bells on deck, first aft, and then answered 



180 Up-Country Letters. 



I 



forward ; and what with this, and a tired stomach, I fell 
asleep and cared nothing more, that night, for ship or sea. 
Early in the morning, I heard a weak voice calling 
to me. It was Fanny. She hadn't slept a wink all 
night. This statement was humbly received ; for no 
reply could be made that would give any special satis- 
faction. The case was beyond argument. But after a 
little, the sun came up (we are on the sunny side), and 
went dancing about the sky, and now and then shoot- 
ing straight in through the windows ; and this was 
pleasant. Then came, also, the stewardess, and we 
made bold to try a little more green-tea panada, and 
gradually became able to think, and take bearings. 
Meantime, the sea was more quiet, and about eleven 
o'clock, as I lay in a kind of trance, sometimes trying to 
think, and sometimes trying not to think, I heard a 
sweet faint voice, just as it were, upon the edge of hear- 
ing, rising and falling in a strange way, and sometimes lost 
altogether, and then coming up again ; but whereaway 
was the wonder. At last I made it out. It was Fanny, 
in No. 11, trying to get through the morning chant! 
Directly, this was all still again, and I went off among 
dreams and phantoms (and rollings alwaj^s), and a 
strong impression that it ought to be Sunday, but it was 
not ; which was very wrong. 



w 



Frank's Log-Book. 181 

At noon, Fanny asked for my watch. I lowered it 
by the open panel through which we talk, and she 
cried out — " Why it's half-past twelve : they are just 
coming home from church." 

" Yes," said I, bracing up with an air of adventure, 
" and Mr. Pundison is ha\'iDg his dinner." 

" No — he has had his dinner, and is in his big chair 
reading." 

" Well, Kate is having her dinner." 

" Yes — that may be — unless, perhaps, it's a festival ; 
and I think it is." 

" And T., and Pun, and Tidy ?" 

" My dear brother," said Fanny, very solemnly, " it 
is Sunday ; and you think of Tidy too much." 

" My dear sister, Tidy is an apple-blossom. Is there 
any harm of thinking of an apple-blossom on Sunday ?" 

By what kind of miracle I don't know, but chiefly, 
as I think, these . home-topics, and especially the 
apple-blossom, we now got rapidly well ; and in an 
hour or two, we were both on deck. How it happened 
neither could tell ; but there we were, walking up and 
down the long promenade, and about as happy children 
as could be found in those parts. 

But it's getting late, now, and I must say good 
night. To-morrow will be another Sunday, and pro- 



182 Up-Country Letters. 

mises a fair day. The uiglit is hazy and dim ; what 
little moon we had having- gone down ; but the wind, 
of which we have eight knots, is fair, and being quarter- 
ing, we drive on, with ver}- little motion of pitch, or roll. 
It is the night to lie with one eye open, half dreaming, 
and waking pleasantly, at odd times, to look out on the 
sea anci the stars, and then fall off again amid bright 
visions and marv^ellous imaginings. And no small mar- 
vel is it that we are so far away — 1,200 miles from 
Sandy Hook (so they say, to-day) — and the weather 
soft as May. Thermometer, to-night, over 60° ; but 
we are still in the Gulf stream, the temperature of which, 
here, is 66°. This is queer enough, off the Banks, and 
the 1 1th day of December ; but so it must be. Good 
night. Before we reach England I hope to talk with 
you again ; but, perhaps not. Good night — 1,200 
miles — ffood niffht. F. B. 



VIII. 

Pundlson House, Up-Oonnlry, ) 
December, 1S50. ) 

We shall be a little sorry, Profes&or, but I fear the char- 
acter of the day will prevent any thing more. We must 
be thankful, to-day, for all things. You say that to go 
out five hundred miles to dine now, in the first brush of 
winter, is too far; and there is force, sir, in your remark. 
When Aps Appleby comes, I shall say to him, — 
" The Professor writes that he cannot come," — and Aps 
Appleby will reply, — "Never mind, my fi-iend, I never 
thought much of the Professor." In short, sir, Little 
Gem is to take your place. She will sit opposite Tidy, 
and the harmony of the grouping, I have discovered, 
will be vastly increased by this new arrangement. Al- 
though sorry, as I said, that you cannot come, my de- 
light in contemplating the group is, I fear, predominant 
just now. In fact, I came near speaking out loud in 



184 Up-Country Letteks. 

cliurcli this morning, in the very middle of the sermon, 
It would have been only an ejaculation. " Glad of it," — 
was the phrase I had on the tip of my tongue, as a new 
view presented itself of the table, as last arranged. As 
my wife was not at church, no one knew the imminent 
danger there had been of an interruption. Joy was with 
me, and it was, perhaps, with a consciousness that Mrs. 
P. was not there to check any improprieties, that I re- 
covered myself in time. 

I look now, momently, for Aps Appleby and the 
Lady Mii-iam. Gem is already here, and is tumbling 
things about, and getting herself very sharp for dinner. 
I advised her some time since to take a small luncheon ; 
but sjie declined. I have my suspicions, however, that 
my father gave her a wine-glass of cider, a little while 
ago : she is full of questions, and little wonders. Gem 
is the youngest daughter of a neighbor, who lives not so 
far away, as to prevent her seeing me, when taking my 
(piazza walk ; and on such occasions she comes out on 
'her piazza, and cries out for a little parley. " Uncle 
Zach" (she calls me imcle), singing out at the top of her 
voice, — " Uncle Zach, good morning !" 

" Good morning. Little Gem." 

" Uncle Zach, may I come over for ten minutes ?" 

" Yes, exactly for ten minutes." j 



Th ANKSG I VINO. 185 

And running over, in a kind of hop and skip, she 
takes my hand, and keeps up the same kind of skip by 
my side, while I continue my walk answering occasion- 
ally, as well as my poor wits Avill enable me, her sharp 
questions and remarks. She then tells me little stories, 
and all important matters of information : what she has 
done, and what she designs to do. It being too cold 
this morning for walking the piazza, she has been curl- 
ing my hair, and twisting my head about, this way and 
that, to get proper views. Aside, as we are here in the 
parlor, before this comfortable wood-fire, the day is be- 
ginning to make me very drowsy. Out-doors, the fine 
snow is foiling still and white. I hear scarcely a sound : 
remotely, are a few ghosts of sound, indications of din- 
ner, I suppose. Gem says she thinks " it's very solemn 
for Thanksgiving," and I think so, too. 

So well digested liave been all the plans in regard 
to the day, and I may say, so accustomed has Mrs. 
P. become, of late, to getting a dinner, — we are all very 
calm. ]\ry wife may be said to be a fraction more in the 
worlil ; but Joy and Tidy laugh and dream, as usual. 
I think now. Professor, I will take a little nap before the 
guests arrive. Gom has gone out to get Rover and 
Pompey engaged in a gentle growl : (I say growl only, 
for I should hope her feminine nature would recoil from 



186 Up-Country Letters. 

a fight :) whereas, a growl, like tlie tuning of instru- 
ments before tlie fiiU crash of performance, pleases her. 
But, as I said, I wiU nap now, if you please. Good-bye, 
Professor, — Good-b-y-e. 

A half hour after writing the above, I came up from 
a light slumber, at the sound of steps on the piazza ; 
and going to the door, behold Aps Appleby, and the 
Lady Miriam, white with snow, and chatting together 
like old acquaintances. Nothing could have been more 
fortunate than their casual meeting at the gate, and so 
avoiding the stiffness of a cold introduction. Snow is so 
insinuating, that I defy any two of the most distant bo- 
dies, not to melt together somewhat when under its 
influence. It had been so with the Lady Miriam and 
Aps Appleby. i 

As soon as the latter was well seated, and the small 
salutations and inquiries were over, I remarked, — " The 
Professor says he cannot come." " " Never mind, my 
friend," said he, " I never thought much of the Profes- 
sor." (The startling identity of words, sir, made me 
almost tremble. You will observe that it was precisely 
what I foretold Aps Appleby would say, and again I 
must urge upon you, not to suppose that I have any 
feeling in thfe matter. Aps Appleby says what he 
pleases, — every body who knows him knows that ; and 



Thanksgiving. 18Y 

now I think of it, it's not unlikely the remark may have 
been playfully ironic. I give you, sir, the benefit of the 
suggestion.) 

At this moment, in came our friend Mr. Hazelbush, 
all aglow with the winter weather, and escoi'ted by T. 
and Joy, who had met him at the door. " Lady Miriam," 
said I, addressing that lady, — " I have the happiness of 
presenting to your acquaintance, our particular fi-iend, 
Mr. Hazelbush." •' I am most happy, sir," said Lady 
M., giving her hand, — " to make your acquaintance ;" 
and saying this, she looked upon him with her great 
black eyes, till he blushed through to his fingers' end. 
Hazelbush, however, is not the man to be easily con- 
founded, and, in fact, if he has a penchant for worldly 
things, it no doubt is for black eyes and brilliant com- 
plexions. 

Tidy came in, at this time, and the ladies having all 
saluted each other (as little white clouds touch in heaven, 
and then gracefully subside), Gem who had been pre- 
sented, took the edge of a chair, and looked straight in 
the fire. In the bustle of conversation around her, she 
soon got abstracted, and was singing a little song all 
alone to herself, when the word dinner became in some 
manner conscious to all parties, and we all arose. Mr5. 
Pundi?on led the way with Aps Appleby, then Hazelbush 



188 Up-Country Letters. 



II 



and Joy, Tidy and Gem, and the Lady Miriam with 
your humble servant. Standing, for a moment, as we 
gathered about the table, Hazelbush dropped a few ^ 
modest words of thanks : a thanksgiving grace, compact 
and hearty, and we took seats as arranged. On my left, 
the Lady M., Hazelbush and Tidy : on the right, Aps 
Applebj^, Joy and little Gem: contrariwise, and the 
grand opposites, — Mr. and Mrs. Pundison. 

One had scarcely said amen to the grace, when the 
brilliantly-browned turkey began to fall to pieces before 
the flashing of my carver. To a feeble arm like mine, 
it is a delight to find tendon and muscle yielding so 
gracefully. Do you understand the keen relish, sir, of - 
this performance — the proper cutting up of a turkey ? 
the smooth and 2:)olished breast-plates, and the nicely- 
rounded hip-joint, felling off before the glittering edge ; 
and the side-bones crushing through, like the cutting of 
salad ! Rapidly as this was done, I found on looking 
about, that every body was already dining, in such a 
way as suited best, for the time; and Mrs. P. and 
Hazelbush were discussing the day. Asking some ques- 1 1 
tion of Aps Appleby, I was not a little surprised to find 
that gentleman entirely absorbed. The Lady Miriam 
had already led him into a delicate entanglement, on a 
question of taste, so that it was not so wonderM that he 






Thanksgiving. 189 

did not hear me : lie was also swallowing a large oyster 
at that moment, and swallowing, hke gaping, you know, 
affects the hearing. Hazelbush was busy, as I have said, 
in a lively conversation with ilrs. P., but evidently 
aimed at Joy, and as far as one could judge, with excel- 
lent effect. Tidy was dining in a quiet way, keeping a 
little memorandum, by herself, of all the sayings and 
doings, and had already pulled wish-bones with Little 
Gem. As the dinner progressed, a bottle of champagne 
went quietly around the table, and Aps Appleby began 
to be bold and dogmatical. Hazelbush, on the contraiy, 
was more retiring than ever, and more especially as Joy 
was beginning to laugh now, upon even the slightest 
pretext for such a proceeding. Mrs. P. was evidently 
going into a certain phase, as it were, indicated by a 
look of great calmness, and extreme readiness for any, 
the most unlooked for emergency ; and her usually pale 
foce, was taking, gradually, the most delicate tints, up, 
up, up ; as at sunrise of summer mornings, a crimson 
outline goes away into heaven, and is lost, projihesying 
the day. 

In this happy position of things and persons, I had 
only to dine with my own individual self, and let things 
go on. After a little, the conversation died away into 
one comer, where Aps Appleby was discussing the mean- 



190 Up-Couin"try Letters. <. 

ing of thanks. What do you mean, said he, looking ") 
with great earnestness^ at the Lady Miriam, when you 
say—" I thank you 2" 

Such a direct question as this, to the Lady Miriam, ^ 
who had not, up to this time, said " I thank you," to 
Aps Appleby, with any special meaning, Avas a little em- 
barrassing: and if I remember right, the Lady Miriam ' 
blushed, and was slightly overcast for the space of half 

a minute or more. 

m 

"What does it mean," continued Aps Aj^pleby, 
looking round the table, — " the phrase, / thank you ?" 

" It means," said T., " I wish to express to you, the 
pleasure you give me." 

" Pretty good," said Hazelbush, " and what, says 
Miss Joy ?" 

" It means," said Joy, " I am very happy about it." 

"Excellent," said Hazelbush, "capital, — and now, 
Little Gem, what is your opinion ?" 

Little Gem took a chicken-bone out of her mouth, 
and asked, — what was the question. The question is, 
said I, what do you mean, Little Gem, when you say, 
" I thank you ?" " Why, if it is you. Uncle Zach, it's 
just the same as to say, — ' I love you.' " 

It was agreed by all, even Aps Appleby not disput- 
ing it, that Gem had given the true meaning : i. e., 



Thanksgiving. 191 

that it depends upon the service rendered, and the per- 
son (this especially) rendering the service. 

" It must be so," said the Lady Miriam, " for we 
find it difficult and sometimes impossible to thank one 
we dislike, even for the greatest kindness." 

"Which we ought to do, however," said Aps 
Appleby, '• on the same principle, I suppose, that we are 
this day to be thankful, not for our good things only." 

"Certainly," said Ilazelbush, "it is not very much 
to be thankful for our turkey and roast-beef and pump- 
kin-pie, and wealth and station, and what you call the 
good thing's of life. The brutes are thankful for care, 
and attention, and food, and all kindness whatsoever ; 
but it is something more to be thankful for affliction, 
and trouble, and what we are usually veiy imthankful 
for, at least at the time of their arrival." 

" You don't mean," said Aps Appleby, " that a man 
is to be thankful for his own mistakes and faux-joas .^" 

"Undoubtedly," said Ilazelbush, "you are to be 
thankful they are no worse." 

" And do you mean to say," said Aps Appleby, 
getting a little excited, and drinking, unconsciously, two 
glasses of wine in succession, — " that a man, in whatever 
desperate condition of life, must still be thankful for that 
hlcT' 



192 Up-Country Lettees. 

" No doubt," said Hazelbusli, " or it would be pel 
fectly right for him to put an end to himself." * 

" And do you not know, gentlemen," said I, inter- 
rupting them, " that it is entirely right for a man, 
under certain circumstances, to put an end to himself m| 
They were not aware that it could be. " Do you re- 
member," I continued, " a famous Dr. B., of Boston ; 
the Rev. Dr. B., who had some queer ways about him, 
some of which consisted in quizzing every body, not ex- 
cepting his own wife and daughters ? On one occasion, 
having an Irish servant in the house, who was not very 
quick at detecting nonsense, he told her, with an air of 
great trepidation, to run to her mistress and tell her, — 
that Dr. B. had put an end to himself. The girl, a 
cordingly, having delivered the message, the astonished 
Mrs. B, and daughters, flew to the doctor's study, and 
were still farther astounded, at finding that gentleman 
stalking solemnly about the room, — with a cow's tail 
attached to the skirts of his coat. He had put an end 
to himself." 

Saying this, I looked around, and was astonished to 
find it so painfully still. In fact, the Lady Miriam was 
again in the excitement of a blush ; it was but momen- 
tary, however, like a flash of lightning, and followed by 
a look of great calmness. Aps Appleby was exceed- 



c|i 



Thanksgiving. 193 

ingly dignified, as were the young ladies all. But 
Hazclbush, who had more sense than all the rest, pre- 
sently began a little laugh, ii-resistibly fat and musical, 
at Avhich Mrs. P. caught at once, and then Tidy, and 
Joy, who was almost exploding, and, at last, Aps 
Appleby, who soon became uproarious. At this change 
the Lady Miriam also laughed a little, in a wild kind 
of way, and the dinner being over, we all rose, indis- 
criminately, and retired to the parlor. All but the 
ladies, of whom the last \aew I had, was T. on the verge 
of that wild condition heretofore described ; Tidy offering' 
to strike her back, which T. was declining with a wave 
of the hand ; while Joy was rocking herself in a perfect 
tumult of laughter; little Gem tasting an unfinished 
i glass of wine, and Lady Miriam looking out the window. 
And here, Professor, we will leave them, if you 
] please, while I take the air a little, and get up a taste 
I for another dinner. 

I Meantime, I send you another of Frank's logs ; but 
1 the half — and the better half, I dare say — is kept so 
' closely by our people, that I never expect to see it. 
\\ Tidy copies it for you, and makes her own selections. I 
I dare say she is not sorry to be busy with it. Did I tell 
\ you that she has it bound ? All in the gayest trap- 
pings. Addio. Yoiu^, Z. P. 

{ 9 



I 



IX. 

Iranli's f asJML 
11. 

Off the North Pole, Sunday night 

My first tliouglit, this morning, was to get a look at tlie 
sunrise ; so I was early at tlie little window, where I 
saw, not the sun, but — the eastern sky, ablaze, as with 
a sheet of crimson fire streaming up into the heavens. 

It was the red light of a conflagration, with white 
lights trembling through from the back-ground. My 
first impulse was to shout — to throw my cap out into 
the foam — or, what would be better — to bowse into the 
sea, and be a part of the proceeding: a part of the 
beauty and glory of the morning. :\ 

The ship was headed due east, straight for England, 
on a chassee fine. A little to the right, and but a little 
way up the sky, the crimson sheet presently gave way 
— consumed itself, as it were — and the sun came blaz- 
ing down upon the sea, giving all that portion a flush 



Frank's Log-Boo k. 195 

of light and splendor. To the north and west, was the 
shade of the picture ; and far away as the eye could 
reach, were the white caps Hfting, and lifting, one after 
another ; and occasionally a line of them, like breakei-s, 
all going up as with a shout. And between these pic- 
tures, with her royals and studding-sails all set, dashed 
the ship. I ran about the deck, in a kind of burst of 
thanksgiving, exclaiming to every body, and being con- 
tinually overwhelmed with the grandeur and beauty of 
the scene. 

We staid on deck all the morning, singing your 
up-country hpnns, until about eleven o'clock, when the 
light suddenly got dim, and a vast body of mist and 
cloud came dashing in from the west, with rain, fine 
and small, like the snow which falls in keen cold wea- 
ther, the wind, at the same time, increasing, with an 
occasional emphasis, by way of a white squall from the 
north — transveree to the main current — which would 
give the ship a rough shake, and pass on. 

It was almost as though the night had fallen upon 
the mid-day. 

About three o'cloclc, the blue sky came out again 
over half the heavens, under which the sea, now much 
higher than before, was tossing in broken masses ; and 
&r away in the west, behind a cloud, the sun was pour- 



196 Up-Country Lkttebs. 

ing down a shower of golden light, over a wide tract, 
glimpses only of wliicli we got, as we went up on the 
high seas that lifted the ship on a line with that horizon. 

Such has been our Sunday, here in the mid-Atlan- 
tic ; and you may write it in gold, that it is possible for 
this our life to be a thing of beauty and surpassing 
glory : not always heavy with care, not always dull with 
pain and sickness, or bent with grief, or dark with sor- 
row and ci'ime, but now and then — for a morning, or 
for a day (and why not, some day, for ever ?) — a thing 
of wonder and thanksgiving. Life, the converse of 
death : the embodiment of joy. Oh, my dear up-coun- 
tries, if it is not this, in its pure abstraction — in its final 
intent — of what use is it, that God has made us? 
What mockeiy of design — what failure of accomplish- 
ment — in One who is all wise, all good, all powerful. 

Such has been this day which has now passed by, 
and gone up to be on record for ever. Peace be with 
it ; and with all its deeds God's infinite grace, that so 
it be not wholly unacceptable on that gi-eat day, to 
which all others must render their final account. 

II. 

Mid-AUiintic, Tuesday nifflit, ) 
TTiree bells of tlie Second Watch. ) 

Continually, and continually. That is to say, always : 
fov ever. By which I mean that we have had forty- 



\ 



Frank's Log-Book. 197 

eight hours of the most remarkable pounding, and 
thumping, and universal rolling withal, that were ever 
put together in the same company. An arrangement 
that would have given us part at a time, would have 
suited better ; but here we must submit ; and we have 
submitted, — receiving all and every thing that came, in 
solemn silence ; sipping a little green tea again, or 
mouthing a cracker, and all da}', and all the long 
nights, still as children put to bed after a hard day's 
frolic. Some day, if we live (and, as to that, we make 
no conjecture), but, if we live, we will tell you all about 
it. 270 miles we have made, to-day — with roll, pound, 
tramp, smash, and so forth. I understand, now, the 
meaning of the word/«wy. Good night 



m. 



In a gale of wind, > 



Thursday, one o'clock. 

I was saying, the other day, that the word /wry was 
expressive. " Like fury," we used to say ; and the 
phrase should be kept as only properly applicable to a 
ship rolling in these pounding seas. To-day, although 
in a gale, we are more quiet. With topsails and a 
fore-mainsail only, we are dashing on, at a quicker rate 
than we have made yet ; but with vastly more self-pos- 
session, than in those large tumblings of the last few 



198 Up-Country Letters. 

days. That was " like fury ^ This motion is that of a 
race-horse, on a straight course, timing his distances 
with a certainty of swiftness and ease, that is calm 
almost as repose itself. Our cabin sky-light being 
closed, I write you from the floor of my state-room, my 
feet braced against the lounge-drawers drawn out, and 
my back against the lower berth. 

The storm is increasing, tSe rain pouring down in 
sheets, and the sky drawn close and dark about the ship, 
and still she rides on beautifully. I wouldn't make any 
change in the proceedings, now, for all the world. If 
the clerk of the weather would hear me, I should say — 
"Keep her so." We have a little variety, however; 
squalls,-^like great black-winged animals, flying about, 
at random, — come down upon us, right across the main 
track ; and occasionally a big sea walks up the prome- 
nade dock, but, finding us very busy in getting on, 
walks off again ; growling, always, because we can't 
possibly stay and be knocked about, as we were yester- 
day. Oh, no, we are up now for England : England — 
Ho ! Bowse and away ! bowse and awajj^ ! and now a 
little more yet, and a little more, and still one knot 
more, and now — we are all right. Beautiful, exceedr 
ingly 1 

" Keep her so, my good clerk. Keep her so 1" 



Frank's Log-Book. 199 

IV. 

Friday, five bella. 

There is variety even in sea-sickness. You may 
have a cord binding your temples, and tied tight be- 
hind ; or, if you prefer it, there is a combination of this 
with the legitimate nausea, which is the extreme, per- 
haps, of what may be done, in this way, and is next 
door to death itself. With this, you lie in your berth, 
straight, with your feet pressing a bottle of hot water, 
if you have that luxury, and try with closed eyes to 
ignore every possible thought, or shadow of a thought^ 
that may present itself. 

If any one approaches, you raise your hand slowly, 
and wave it very gently, to express the w^ord hush ; and 
to intimate to any bystander, that being on the con- 
fines, so to speak, the shghtest whisper might be fatal. 

Then you think of darkness and nothingness, and 
what the brain is made of, and whether the world has 
gone out hke a caudle, till by and by, the night comes, 
aud you gO down, at last, into a deep sleep — perhaps to 
dream of the still waters, and the silver fountains, and 
the golden sunlight of some far-off land. 

Two or three hours after midnight you will wake 
and wonder where you are, and how funny every thing 
is. There's the little window, looking through which, 



200 Up-Country Letters. 

you discern a star or two, and the blue waters floating 
past, or sweeping off to leeward, to break like a snow- 
drift ; and, listening, you hear the lashing of the seas, 
and, perhaps, the ship's bells just striking the hour — or 
possibly the sailors shaking a reef out, and singing in 
their sad way, that will perhaps make your eyes water: 
and with all this, lo, and behold, you are quite well 
again. Then something funny will strike you, and as 
you are very weak, you laugh for half an hour steady, 
and Fanny will wake and wonder what you are laugh- 
ing at, she herself being almost dead : and after talking 
up things awhile, and not at all to her satisfaction, you; 
go to sleep again. 

When you next wake, you feel very brave. You 
will get up now, directly, and go on deck, and do re- 
markable things. Putting your feet over the berth-rail, 
with one arm to leeward and one to windward, you cal- 
culate chances, and balancing like a bird on the wing, 
launch to the floor. The first thing that strikes you 
now, is, " Hovv^ the ship rolls ! who would have thought 
it !" and away you fall — not softly either — against the 
little window, through which you take a look at the 
sea, the white caps, the fine drift, and' the flash of the 
sunlight on the breakers, miles away on the distant 
horizon. These things will make you look, and look. 



Feank's Log-Book. 201 

and look again, till you begin to shiver; and then you 
screw up the window, blunder some water into the bowl, 
and if you can, without breaking your head, you wash 
your face, and then, siiddenly, a change. You feel 
queer, you are flushed, your head reels — " What in the 
name of gra-cious is the matter ? Bah ! bu-ah, bu-ah, 
bo-oo !" — this last expression escaping from you, with a 
bitter shake of the head, like a dog with a woodchuck ; 
and then, sir, if you don't go down on your marrow- 
bones, with a strong impression that you have swallowed 
the Wandering Jew — you are constructed upon some 
model I have not yet seen, and should get out a patent 
directly 

While you are occupied below, we will get up a 
storm. To this end, bring up a great wind, a " stonn- 
wind," so that eveiy thing goes off on a slant, almost 
flat through the air ; set every thing howling that can 
howl, but with a great variety, and tone all with a kind 
of burr, hke the noise of a spinning wheel — and draw 
the night not too close, but so that you can just see off 
into the thick of it. This for the upper works. Now 
underneath, and in and about all this tumult, create a 
sea, a thousand miles from the nearest land, where the 
wind has been blowing about 6,000 yeare (less will do), 
and put your ship there, with all sails taken in, save the 
9* 



202 Up-Country Letters. 

top-sails and the storm-sail : put her before the wind^ 
have a dozen men to stand by the weather braces, and| 
behold — there you have it ! a pleasant, comfortable gal^ 
in the mid-Atlantic. 

Now if you have done with affairs below, and can 
step on deck and look a scene like this straight in the 
face, with a brain calm and cool — you will have reached 
a maximum of exultation, beyond which is no higher 
Alp, in all this lower creation. 

You will be strengthened for years to come. The 
bravery of it will be in your blood, giving tone, and 
health, and Hallelujahs. You will almost doubt the 
doctrine of original sin (the — alia being forgotten foii 
the moment) — and conclude that all trouble, all care, 
all sickness, all ill whatever, must doubtless be con^ 
trived by some good practical joker, for the purpose of 
making our disappointment, by and by, so overwhelm- 
ingly pleasant ! the ill, the care, the sin, having been al|2 
in fun ! a practical joke. Nothing more. 



X. 

f nljg gtiriam's Visits. 

Up-Comitr)'> December, 1850. 

I AM glad 3^011 like the log, Professor, and your inquiry 
in regard to Hazelbush is natural enough ; but, — I have 
to remark — you are not to know all things. Perhaps 
he is a young lawyer, from a neighboring city, whose 
peculiar success in addressing juries is one of those won- 
derful things, only to be explained when a thousand 
other occult things are brought to Hght, Perhaps he is 
1 a yoimg officer, stationed not far from us, who rides up, 
j occasionally of a morning, bows to Joy through the win- 
dow, and calls out to Bob to show him the stables ; 
and after securing his horse himself, and seeing him well 
' cared for, walks in with such a prodigious freshness and 
roundness of face, that he seems to bring all out doors 
with him. Perhaps. 

And in r^ard to the Lady Miriam, I suppose if I 



204 Up-Country Letters. 

tell you that slie lives on the top of the east mountain, 
by the shore of a beautiful pond, it will be sufficient. I| J 
will add, however, that she lives almost alone with her 
servants ; and that her butler still wears a shirt-collar of . 
prodigious magnitude. Sunday mornings, she may be 1 1 
seen winding down the mountain, on a beautiful English! I 
horse, and a little distance behind is the old butler, who, 
whenever she speaks, raises his hand to his head, and i i 
says — " Your Ladyshij)." Her life, up on the mountain, ' 
is as like some wonderful dream as any thing you can 
imagine. From that high look-out, every thing in the 
world takes to her a peculiar beauty ; and so much is this 
the case, her unconsciousness of evil is almost unbelief. 

She comes down to see us occasionally, having sent 
the old butler a day or two in advance, with a note, 
saying — that she expects to arrive at such an hour, on 
such a day, and hopes that my father is very well. My 
father replies to her, in an immense hand, signed W. P., 
with a circle, — saying that he shall be happy to see her 
ladyship, and perhaps adds that the thermometer stands 
2° below, or whatever it may be at the time. My father 
may safely be said to be quite at leisure, but his letters 
are as prompt as they were in his best days. Their 
shortness and precision, and what he calls — " coming to , 
the point," — are certainly much to be admired. ' 



Lady Miriam's Visits. 205 

Having despatched such a welcome to the Lady 
Miriam, signed, perhaps, — " in great haste," — although 
the whole day is before him, — my father seats himself 
comfortably, and with thumbs twirling, revolves in his 
mind, evidently with no small complacency, — the note, 
the reply, and the expected arrival. 

On the morning when the Lady Miriam is looked 
for, my father shaves himself with extreme care, and puts 
his hair up in a sort of pyramidal way, with occasional 
touches of pomatum ; all in a style of say, — " forty 
years ago." Putting aside what he is entirely safe in 
calling his heavy boots, he puts on instead, his fine boots, 
as he styles them, and the said fine boots having at 
least a half-inch thickness of sole, there is not much risk 
of cold, even in the winter. 

Thus prepared, my father is usually on the look-out, 
at least an hour before Lady Miriam can possibly be ex- 
pected ; and shows not a little activity, in walking to the 
front door every few minutes, — leaving all intermediate 
ones open on the way, — and wondering if any thing has 
happened. 

At last, the dogs are heard to bark furiously, and when 
eveiy body has done looking for her, the Lady Miriam 
is seen coming up the yard, sitting her horse with great 
steadiness and erectness of posture. My father steps out, 



206 Up-Country Letters. 

and receives her with extreme gallantry, waving off the 
old butler who comes forward for that purpose. By this 
time, also, T. and Joy take possession of the ladj'', while 
Tidy gives her a look of welcome through the window, 
and she is escorted to the Blue-Room, which, like one 
previously described, looks down over the Pine-Grove 
towards the sunrise. After these preliminaries, the Lady 
Miriam may be seen sitting with my father, in his room, 
in company with the great kitchen clock, the old hearth, 
and the engravings, discussing all great and important 
affairs. Her complexion is as brilliant as the morning, 
while my father having put aside his hat, shows an ex- 
pansion of forehead not usually seen in the finest heads ; 
and with his hair still dark even at his years, he has on 
these occasions almost the appearance of youth. 

I cannot say what may be the subjects of their dis- 
cussion. There is no privacy whatever, that I know of; 
but we usually withdraw, after a little. In passing 
through the rooms, it is impossible not to hear occasional 
remarks ; such as, — " In the year ninety-eight," — " When 
I was surveying on Lake Erie," etc., and sometimes the 
names of Connecticut men, — as Dr. D wight. Dr. Backus, 
Dr. Bellamy ; and such an ordination is mentioned, as 
at Bethel, or Danbury. 

Rarely, but of late more often than before, my fa- 



Lady Miriam's Visits. 207 

ther produces divers slips of paper, mostly old letter 
envelopes, each paper holding one stanza of four to six 
lines each, which he writes occasionally of very sharp 
mornings, when the mercury is say 20° or 30° below, 
and outdoors is that fine white mist silvering the land- 
scape and making one thrill as with music. Then it is 
these things are written upon various- themes : the state 
of the weather, congress, the gi'eat avenue, life, death, 
and immortahty: each verse being compact of itself 
and expressing the Avhole subject like a sonnet. The 
latest of these my father will now produce and present 
to the Lady Miriam for her remarks and criticisms. By 
especial request, the Lady Miriam usually takes them 
home with her, on the mountain, and copies them out 
in a handsome round hand on the pages of a small man- 
uscript book with gold clasps, in which are written all 
wonderful things. 

If the day is bright and pleasant, my father takes 
occasion to show her his meridian-mark, on the south 
piazza : with which mark, the gTcat clock, and his watch 
over the mantel, are made to tally. The platform-scales 
being close by, he then proceeds to weigh her, though 
for what purpose it certainly would be difficult to say, as 
she is not of the variable kind. My father himself takes 
his own weight, with great nicety, every Saturday night ; 



208 Up-Country Letters. 

rating the same on a shingle with red chalk ; and is 
sensibly alarmed, if by any chance he has gained a 
pound or two above his usual mark. On these occasions, 
the Lady Miriam dines with us, and stays until the sun 
reaches a certain portion of the heavens, which indicates 
to her the proper time for her departure. On her re- 
turn, my father sometimes escorts her as far as the foot 
of the mountain : the lady always walking thus far with 
him, while the old butler follows at a respectful distance 
with the led horse. When she has ascended half way 
up the mountain, where the road enters a wood, she 
stops a moment, waves her good-bye, and disappears. 

My father walks slowly home, and for the rest of the- 
day and evening, is considerably abstracted ; seldom ' 
hearing any question that may be asked him, until it is 
repeated several times, and then will answer you with 
perhaps, — " More than forty years ago." But as I said, 
Professor, you are not to know all things. Good mom- 
inff. Z. P. 



XI. 

Sun^au Uiglrt ^peculations. 

We have wheeled around again into Sunday night, and 
our Httle circle is still unbroken. Here we all are by 
the round table, and the golden-footed lamp, and the 
Claude, and the gi-eat curtains ponderous and oriental. 
We, (i. e., substantially, T., Joy, Tidy and your ser- 
i vant) are here, — but the week is gone. They say it will 
I never come back again : that whatever was done last 

week will so remain for ever. 
] And what is the result of the week, say you ? aye, 

I — aye, — what is it ? For six days the sun has gone up 
and down the heavens, streaming upon mountain, val- 
ley, and fields all white with snow ; or showering down 
his briglit light upon the tops of snow-storms and realms 
of cloud-land, — covering whole states — and nowhere 
one quivering ray going through into the milky twiUght 



210 Up-Country Letters. 

below. Six long winter nights we have crawled shiver- 
ing to-bed, and laid ourselves straight out, seeking 
obUvion, as in the shadow of death : some going away 
into deep and calm slumber, — waking in the still night 
to draw closer the blankets around them : some tossing 
lazily in uneasy dreams, and waking at daylight to hear 
Bob scratching at the hall stove : six breakfasts, six din- 
ners, and six suppers : a trifle of sausage, mutton, and 
roast-beef, some httle of corn-starch, and quantities OM j 
buckwheat-cakes, — and the week is gone ! Whereaway, 
oh Professor, whereaway ! Ah ! sir, wherever away, it 
is not lost ! We shall meet it again, one day, and 
strange as it may seem, it will be this same vanished! | 
but inevitable last week. 

We talk, sir, of the fear of death : should we not 
rather fear to live ? Are you so firm of step, are all 
your tempers so happily mixed, are you so at peace with 
the world that you can say to next week — " Come on, 
my hearty ?" The fear of death, in itself, is idle : it is 
the fear of this mixed and tottering life, which is, or 
should be, of any force in human conduct. Was it 
Southey who said, — if there was a balloon conveyance 
to the next life, there would be crowds going on in that 
travel ? 

I am willing to wait ray time to the very last day. 



Sunday Night Speculations. 211 

Fearflil as life is, let us be in no haste to make a change, 
which, when it is made, is so momentous. Not that 
God's mercy is less after death than it now is. But 
before the moment of death arrives to any individual, 
his moral character is doubtless in one way or the other 
— mature ; and nothing short of that kind of interference, 
which would create a change of identity, would change 
such a character ; and it is possible that there may be 
some creations of God, — as for instance, the human soul, 
— which, in the nature of things, cannot be uncreated, 
and therefore that God cannot, if he would, vouchsafe 
to lost souls the gift of annihilation. 

But one thing is certain, — that this life pre-arranges, 
as it were, all the Hfe to come : and in something more 
than the sense, in which youth pre-arranges manhood 
and age. 

If life here is properly conducted, death can make 
but a change of places. If a man, then, can so shape his 
life in all things as to be ready to shift the scenes at any 
moment, to another mode of action, I see no harm in 
Hving on. The whole problem of this first attempt 
should be fairly solved. 

And in regard to death, we do not often think that 

it only touches the ashes. I am telling you a 

common-place, but it is well to think of it often, that 



212 Up-Countrv Letters, 

in point of fact, nobody is dead. I say to you, Professor, 
nobody is dead. But all the liosts tliat ever lived still 
throb with life, and as really and actually as you and 1^ 
my dinner-eating Professor ! 

All the hosts antediluvian, all the armies of Israel^ 
all they who built the Pyramids and those old temples 
of the Nile, all Pharaoh's multitudes, all they who sacked 
Jerusalem, and the Avild races who raised high the 
hanging-gardens of Babylon, they of Nineveh, and Troyj 
and Rome ; the hundred thousands, who at one man's 
bidding, laid them down upon battle-fields and plains of 
snow ; and the plunging millions from all parts of the 
world : all — all live — for ever ! And you and I, Profes- 
sor, are of this great company, and we travel on. A 
little while, and we shall be gone from these parts, and 
God will have found a place for us somewhere in his 
wide domains. 

I look up through this wintry sky, and it is not 
fancy all, oh, sir, it is not a wild imagination that tells 
me there is a home up there. Let us get ready for that 
new home, — that beautiful life ! — where night and winter 
shall come no more ; where storm and tempest, if seen 
at all, will be as the flashings of summer lightning on 
distant horizons, noiseless and without harm. Oh, let 
lis get ready for that beautiful life. 

Yours, Z. P. 



xn. 



m. 

Saturday, four bells, wind W.N.W., I 
going teu knutg. ) 

A BREEZY morning to you, and how do you all do, in 
the up-country ? Your ujp, however, is not to us, if you 
please. When you have sailed into the breath of the 
ices about the Pole, where the sun rises a little before 
mid-day, and sets directly after, you will have arrived 
at an up-country. "\Ve look down upon you, as from 
Pisgah. If we could slide down to you, on a hand-sled, 
our momentum, by the time we should arrive, would 
carry us straight on into the Gulf of Mexico. You would 
see a line of white light, with a wave of Fanny's hand- 
kerchief, and hear, perhaps, a faint " addio ;" but it 
would be difficult to stop, unless by an up-set, and then 
we should arrive some hours beforehand — for we have 
the top of the morning here before it's cock-crow in the 
States. And we never " fall-off," but are continually 



214 Up-Country Letters. 

reaching on to an earlier " Good morning." This gives 
us an indescribable freshness and forehandedness, while 
there is never any precision as to any given time, but all 
is left easy and fluent, with no exact and painful puno 
ture, so to speak ; as for instance, when twelve o'clock 
comes, it is by no means that exact moment — certainly not 
— but some gliding fractional point, as — say 11 J, or 1^-, 
or 1 40, according to the easting we make ; and in re- 
gard to. which, the captain only has any unpleasant 
exactness. 

All, you perceive, graceful and flowing, like the sky, 
and the stars, and the clouds, and the seas, and the birds, 
on the wing, and the ship under sail, and the turncoat 
stomachs below. 

Queer weather we have. Lightning all night long, 
— so the mate says — and the usual su2)ply of squalls. 
A few flashes are still playing in and out, close by the 
eastern horizon, like sword-blades, glittering and thrust-, 
ing among the clouds, which lie there black as night. 

IL 

EigM bells, third wttkli. 

Moonlight on the sea. All about what the poets^ 
have raved, at such a rate. We have been looking at 
it ; and it is, doubtless, very excellent — moonlight, but- 
I prefer the strong contrasts of the day. 



I 



Frank's Log-Book. 215 

Take, for instance, the sunset we had to-night. Tlie 
east all hung in black, massive and ponderous ; and the 
west — flashing, and mellow and golden. 

In the mid-heaven, a few brilliant fleeces of red and 
gold, half on the blue sky, and half over the black night 
coming up ii'om the east ; and underneath, the seas 
rolling in from the sunset, dashing their foam like waves 
of light over the waters. A little to the north, the ship, 
under top-gallants and royals, fills up the picture. To 
this, moonlight is tame. 

So under the golden sunlight, 

And into the blinding spray, 
With one live gale from the sou'-southwest 

To boost us on our way : 
We have cross'd the seas to England, 

And answered the helmsman's cry— 
" Aye, aye, sir, up for England — 

Up for England, su*, aye, aye." 

That is part of a web that I put together in the still 
midnights of last week, Nice ? It wants trimming, 
however, and then you shall look at it. 

Good night. To-morrow will be Sunday again. It 
is a long path to look back to the first Sunday ; and a 
solemn thing it is to go on, day after day, and night 
nftor night, with only once in a thousand miles or so, a 



216 Up-Countrt Letters. 



1 



sliip going by in the distance, voiceless and still, and no 
land — not enougli to rest the feet of a dove, but onlj 
the sky, and the stars, and the clouds, and the everlast 
ing sea. A solemn thing. Good night. 

m. 

Sunday night, off the flonth coast of Ireland, ) 
Wind North, and blowing wild-cata. ) 

We are among the " tumbling seas," as the captain 
calls them. I call them " pounding" — ^being the same 
\ve had in the first plunge into deep water, off New- 
foundland, just as we sheered ofi" the continent, and gol 
into wide waters. It's a crazy night ; the wind outside 
blowing a gale ; and here, under the lee of the land, wi 
have all we can use, and a good deal to throw away. 
The ship is lying low down, her starboard side close to" 
the water, and is close-hauled to main and top-sails, 
storm-sail and spanker. Whew ! how she cuts throug] 
the water. The spray dashes the decks fore and al 
about every third wave, and for a variety, pound an 
smash go the ship's bows against some lubberly se; 
that comes knocking you down, and then knocking you!| 
after you're down. Not far above the masts, a brown 
scud, sometimes in masses, sometimes a mere float, flies 
by to the south'ard, like the very wind itself; and farther 
up and riding high and still in the heavens, are count- 



Frank's Log-Book. 217 

less groups of snow-white clouds, lying soft on the sky- 
blue, and apparently spectators only — while the moon 
walks overhead, dashing her light broad-cast upon the 
scud, and the clouds, and the ship, and this all-tumbling 
Eea. 

I only wish your " celebrated " were here, to 

take a copy and make it immortal. Good night. 



IV. 



In the Irish C!hanne1, Monday, 1 
Four bells. Wind idle. J 



And as pure a morning as the golden east has rolled 
up the sky since we sailed off Sandy Hook. The sea is 
calming itself gradually, as though after such a time it 
must still wheeze a little, and the ship with all sail set 
to her royals, resting herself after the ])lunges and rolls 
and double contumbles of 3,000 miles, is rocking grace- 
fully up channel at about five knots an hour. 

Our windows now open upon England — merry Eng- 
land — but too far away to see. 

On the left, not quite within range of sight, is sweet Ire- 
land. Far away to the north and the west, and the south, 
just tinged with crimson and gold, lie the white clouds, 
that last night wer-e up so close to the sky ; and above, 
— ranging over to where the sun, buried in clouds, is 
raining down the red fire over England, — is the round 
10 



218 Up-Country Letters, 

dome of blue, clear and spotless ; not a traveller tliere. 
Look high or low, there is nothing more, save far down, 
in the west, calm and erect as a light-house (and so like, 
that I asked if it were one), is one solitary ship. 

All things being so happily disposed, I will go up 
now to my favorite lounge in the starboard boat, and 
look for events. The roll of a porpoise, or a new face in 
the offing, would be pleasant. Doubtless, something 
may turn up. 

V. 

Seven bells, i. e., llj^ o'clock, A.M. 

The something has turned up — or rather down. It 
appears that happy and artistic dispositions of sky an<^ 
cloud are not proper here. Wet and drizzle only are 
legitimate. Two hours ago, I made you that outline of 
a pleasant morning, and now there is not a clean spot 
in the sky. The rain is fine and small, and the wind still 
baffling ; so the ship gets dirty and lazy. The men are 
grouped about, some lunching, some reading, sovai 
looking to windward with the glass, trying to look up 
neighbor ; the captain not over sociable, and the mate — 
all length and nose that he is — walking up and down 
in the wet, with his hands plunged dee^ in his pockets,^ 
as though he were feeling for a wind to throw at the 
top-sails ; so lazy and dripping we go. 



Frank's LoG-BooK. 219 

But pleasant weather is considered dangerous here, 
I believe. To oLjeet, therefore, Avould be neither proper 
nor pertinent, 

VI. 

WednesdAy, noon, lying '* off and on" ) 
tlie Ule of Ariglesea : nind fresh, f 

At sunrise this morning, we were close in upon 
Ilolyhead light, where we saw the iron bridge 200 feet 
high, and higher up, on the main, the telegraph fix- 
tures, with their long arms swinging about, and panto- 
miming in that prodigious way from.mountain to moun- 
tain, sixty miles over land and sea, to tell them at 

Liverpool that the big ship " " is lying off 

and on, hereabouts, eighteen days from Sandy Hook. 

A very grand sight it was, through the ship's glass, 
to see the siuilight flashing up behind the mountains 
upon the lofty language of those monstrous arms. 
Close below us, now, are the Isle of Anglesea, and the 
" Skerry" Rocks — the surf dashing up and along them 
(as seen two miles off), like white bears running up and 
being continually dashed back again into the sea. 

Breezy and pleasant. Mr. , the New Haven 

man, is about in his hat and full dress, as though he 

expected to step ashore, now, directly. !Mr. W , also, 

got his tight boots on much too soon ; as to-day he has 



220 Up-Gountey Letters. 

had to nurse one foot in a slipper. I shall tate possession 
of England in my storm-coat, and hard-\yeather trousers, 
unless there is some law forbidding the transaction at a 

high penalty. " At the opera," says Mr. W , with 

his foot nursing, as aforesaid, " the police will stop you, 
sir, immediately." " Doubtless," I replied, " but we are • 
not yet in London ; and now that I think of it, I havo 
been to the opera," 



vn. 



Wednesday niffht, seven bells, 11% P.M., I 



Pilot aboard : wind fresh. 

Two hours ago we had a very pretty commotion. 
A trim little craft sailed about us, dropped her boat aft, 
and after a deal of very charming manoeuvring, keeping 
us on the jump to see where he was, we found him (the 
pilot), all of a sudden, on the quarter-deck : and so, blow 
high or blow low, we are in good hands now for a har- 
bor. All our pleasurable excitement, however, has been 
dashed by the sad news he brought, of the loss of 

the packet-ship " ," with all her passengers, 

a little above Cape Clear — the point which Ave, only a 
few nights since, rounded in such gallant style. 

She went to wreck, doubtless, while we were out in 
the mid-Atlantic. 



I 



JFbank's Log-13ook. 221 



VIU. 

Eight bells, midnife'lil. 

Good niglit. I spealv quick, for, now, it's morning. 
The sound of the last bell is just going by. Wednesday 
is gone ! We are in separate days. " Do up his head, 
— tie up his chin : open the door, and let him in that 
waiteth at the door." 

Thursday — your most obedient ! Long life to you, 
and, sir, may we be happy together, and both see Ould 
England in company before the sunset. 

And my dear Wednesday, before you are quite 
gone, let me say good-bye to you — do you hear, my 
friend ? Good-bye 1 

Too late ! He is off. His skirts are, this moment, 
sweeping over swate L-eland. He is off for the high 
seas, and the States. Well : let the up-countries look 
to him ; and let them make the most of him, and Avhen 
he is gone, thank God for making his acquaintance — 
for he brought us a pilot, did Wecbiesday, and sunlight, 
and moonlight, and a breeze to take us into harbor. A 
clever day was Wednesday — an excellent day — oh, a 
very beautiful day 1 

And, now, my dear people over seas, we must wind 
up tlie odds and ends. This paper must be brought to 



222 Up-Country Letters. 

a close ; tlie pleasant rooms must be left vacant again ; 
the cabin, tbe deck, the sofa, and the round table, and 
the little window : and on decks, the beautiful spars, 
with their white sails tapering up ; all these must be 
left : fur we and the ship must part. 

Amen. I am in no indecent haste, but content to 
go. There has been nothing wonderful in this trip of 

the ship " ." It has been a quick one ; for 

the winds have been strong and fair : it has been safe ; 
for God has been with us. 

But, during this same time, many Avarm and throb- 
bing hearts have gone down into the deep, deep sea, and 
there Avas no arm to save, no voice to cheer, no friend 
with whom to leave a last good-bye. In the dark mid- 
night — down, down, in the black depths, and there to 
remain for ever, till the trump of God shall call them 
from the deep. Oh, the cold, the dark, the deep cold 
waters ! The mother will look for her son, and the 
sister for her brother, but see them no more. Day after 
day, and week after week, but — no more — no more. 
The grandfather will put up his wet glasses and wonder 
why his boy stays so long on the waters, and he will 
pray God once more, to preserve him, and bring him 
safe home, but now, it is too late. He will see him here 
no more for ever. 



Frank's Lou-Book, 223 

But we are safe ! — thank God ! Safe ! — thank the 
Most High. Down, down and thank the Most High; 
Him who rideth upon the wings of the wind, and doeth 
wonders in tlie Great Deep. 

And now it's two bells — one o'clock — and I will 
say good night ; and to make it right, you know, I will 
just add " Good morning" to myself (privately, as it 
were), which will secure us all the proprieties. Are you 
ready ? So 

Good night ! (i. e.. Good morning !) meaning, how- 
ever. Good night, do we not? — or. Good night and 
Good morning, or Good morning and then Good night ! 

Ah, no ! I must open my arms wider and draw 
them closer, for, my dear up-countries, this is a serious 
business : a vciy serious business ! I beg you will not 
look at me, for my eyes are wet, and I am foolish to- 
night beyond all expression : but as to the good night 
and the good morning, it's naither of them. It's 
GooD-cYE. Frank Bryars. 



XIII. 

Pundiaon House, Up-Country, Decemter. 

Led away by some spirit, who comes to me once in a 
while, and whose gentle suggestion I never resist, but go 
with unconsciously and without argument, as a child is 
led away by some gentle hand, I, this morning, found 
myself wandering uj) to the house of our friend Frank. 
I did not stoi) to think, that nobody was there but old 
Tim ; or, if I did, I liked it all the better for that. 

All night the snow had been falling, fine and fast, 
and the wind, which was from the northeast, was still 
drifting it about in all fanciful shapes, points, wedges, 
porticos, and such like suggestions. Early on rising, the 
first noticeable thing had been the window-panes, almost 
shut up with the snow which had lodged upon the 
casing and fastened about on the sash. Out doors, save 
the fences and the drifts, all was white, and smooth, and 



Singing "China." 225 

still. Down, down, softly, oli how softly, but with cu- 
rious contortions, and little puzzlements of motion, came 
the snow. Noav and then a shriek, — sharp and long- 
drawn, — pierced through the house and died slowly 
away. It was the northeaster. He was come down 
from Labrador, and all night he had been busy, scream- 
iiiG: and bowline: about the land, and flinojino: down, 
broadcast, his fine white crystals. 

As we sat at breakfast, with hot cakes and that 
nectar of drinks, — souchong with cream, — we were con- 
stantly looking out to see the storm ; and wondering if 
it would last all day. I shouldn't Avonder, said T., if it 
was to storm a week. And then, said Joy, how should 
we ever get out ? but it would make the sleighing last 
all Avinter, and that would be nice. 

T., said I, rising, I am going away. 

Then I am going too, said T. 

No, I must go alone. 

But are you crazy, my dear husband, to go out in 
such a storm, — and pray, where are you going ? 

I can't say — somewhere — perhaps up to Frank's, and 
if I am not back, don't wait dinner for me. 

Cy this time, I was in my old storm-coat, and had 
tied down my pantaloons with leather strings, close 
about the feet, 

10* 



226 Up-Country Letters. 

" Good-bye," said I, and plunged out into the storm. 
As I opened the door, a great blast swept a whirlwind 
of snow through into the dining-room, and Avhat with 
this and the suddenness of my departure, the women 
were too astounded to prevent my going. It was only 
after I had reached the highway, and was toiling on, 
pulling one foot after the other through the drifts, that I 
heard a sort of concert of screams, struggling up against 
the wind : and looking back, there on the piazza, were 
T. and Joy and Tidy, and my father with his long hair 
flying in the wind, all shouting and gesticulating for me 
to come back. I stopped a moment, to shout back and 
pantomime to them, that 'twas no use — that I must go 
on ; and then shut a deaf ear to all further entreaties. 
The wind was keen, however, and searching, almost to 
the very vitals. Before I had half reached Frank's 
house, I was taken with that sickness, which comes on 
sometimes from excessive cold ; but still dragged along. 
All the time something was saying, — " Come on — come 
on — let's have a frolic — a real outsider — brace up, my 
hearty — never fear — come ahead— come ahead :" and I 
would reply, — " I'm coming — I tell you I'm coming, but 
don't hurry me : sick at the stomach, this minute, — don't 
hurry me, I say, or I go straight home." 

Then came the thoiight of my people I had left so 



Singing "China." 227 

suddenly, and I remembered that I heard no more fi-om 
them ; unless some little taint stragglings of sound might 
possibly have been T.'s voice ; — I had not turned to see, 
for at that moment, I heard the hall door close with a 
slam, and then I knew they had given me up. Ah, if 
I could have looked so for through the bhnding snow, 
would I not have seen T., looking and spying out into 
the storm, fi-om the north-room window, her face, per- 
haps, like the glass, a little dimmed ^\'ith sudden moist- 
ure, and all the time keeping her eye fixed upon my old 
gray coat, as it appeared and disappeared, till at last, 
she saw old Tim coming down to meet the said old gray 
coat, and break the way up to the house. It was a long 
way off, but a woman's eyes are far-sighted, when she is 
looking — but never mind. Here were Tim, and the 
storm, and the old house, and all of a piece. 

" Are my eyes open," — ,*aid Tim, while a long way 
off, — " that I see Mr. Pundison in this blessed storm ?" 
" Eh ! what are you about here," said I. " Where's your 
cattle, that you are not out breaking the road, and mak- 
ing yourself sociable, eh ? answer me that, Mr. Tim." 
Tim made no reply, but instead, began breaking a road, 
right and left, up to the back door, where I escaped, at 
last, into the kitchen, which was all ablaze with a huge 
fire that went crackling and roaring up chimney ; while 



228 Up-Country Letters. 

at tlie same time, little capes and promontories of snow 
were to be seen under tlie doors and reaching out into 
the room, still crisp and unthawed. 

" Tim," said I, proceeding to hang up the old coat, 
and unfasten my leggins, — " Make a fire in the parlor ; 
I've come up for a frolic." Without waiting a moment, 
that ancient servant, with a face of prodigious satisfac- 
tion, disappeared among the dark recesses of the house, 
there to open windows, and set the big fire going. I 
found an old pair of slippers, and drew up to the fire- 
place. An ancient cat sat near one of the jams, im- 
mensely prim, and looked at me very suspiciously at first, 
tiU presently she began to puiT, and then came up and 
rubbed herself about the chair, stepping daintily over 
any drippings that might be in the way. At last she 
sprang up into my lap and pvn-red herself to sleep. The 
old dog, — " Growler," — lay in one corner of the room, 
and seemed to see and hear nothing whatever, except 
once in a while as the wind howled a little louder than 
usual, or a board rattled about some out-house : at this 
he would not raise himself at all, but growled and 
moaned, — as it were to himself, — and in case of extreme 
violence, would break out into a bark. It was plain 
that he was cold ; but he made no attempt to get to the 
fire. It suited him, — the old scamp, — to lie there in 



Singing "China." 229 

the cold cand growl. That was his way of living. He 
was brought up so, and he couldn't help it. " Think of 
Rover," said I, " keej^ing himself off in the cold, when 
tliere's a comfortable fire to come to: the thing is 
absurd." 

I will admit, however, that dogs have a little pride 
about this matter. It is their business to be on guard, 
weather or no weather. 

Being now well warmed through, I entered the dark 
passages leading to the south parlor. Old Growler, 
without sa)'ing a word, rose and followed me. The cat, 
also, came tripping along with her tail straight up in 
the air. Bursting in upon Tim, we found the old man 
flourishing about with gxeat vigor. He had two im- 
mense logs on the fire, and having opened all the shut- 
ters, the room looked quite cheery. " I'm not soriy to 
see you, Mr. Pundison," said Tim, " you may be sure of 
that : ah, sir, it's a long night I've had, thinking of Mr. 
Frank and Miss Fanny out upon the say : it's dreadful, 
sir, to think of, and they going in a miserable sail-ship, 
when they might have gone over in a steamer, so aisy." 
" But Tim," said I, " they are over, already : they're in 
oiUd England — they're ashore — they are safe over seas." 
— " Hold, hold," says Tim, " and give me your hand, 
and look me in the face, and tell me you're not joking : 



230 Up-Country Letters. 

and tell me again, Mr. Pundlson, that they are iu ould 
Ireland, sweet Ireland for ever. Oh, no, it's England I 
mean, and may the blessed Virgin" — and here, having 
looked in my face, and made quite sure of it, the old 
man suddenly disappeared into the kitchen. How he 
may have prayed to the blessed Virgin, in that old 
kitchen, and how he cried and laughed by turns, I never 
knew: I only had my suspicions from after-appearances. 

Seating myself in Frank's immense leather-backed 
chair, which inclines to whatever angle you like, I now 
took up the subject of matters and things in general. 
Growler walked off to the coldest place he could find, 
and the cat, after dodging sparks before the fire, sprang 
again into my lap, and went to sleep. 

Out of the south window I could look over a wide 
sweep of country, but the storm now fell so fast and fu- 
rious that nothing could be seen. Very soon, looking 
out the window, a thousand little spirits seemed to be 
surrounding and wrapping me in some subtle influence, 
and in ten minutes, I suppose, from the time I took that 
chair, I was fast asleep. The unusual excitement was 
having its reaction ; and I was gone. Nothing else 
slept. Not the wind. Not the northeaster. Not the 
cat : she was only on the borders of that land ; for the 
mora.nt phe fancied I was asleep, she came up and took 



Singing "China." 231 

a seat on my riglit slioulder, and busied herself winking 
at the big fire. I saw it all through the glass on the 
mantel. 

And now, Professor, if you ask what all this means, 
and what I was about, I could not have told you. I 
liad not planned any thing definitely. Perhaps I was 
now getting my frolic in this royal nap all alone, nearly, 
in an old house, and a storm outside that was perfectly 
pitiless in its character. What greater luxury can a 
man have than rest, w^hen it is contrasted with tumult, 
and hurry, and fearful imaginings ? What more exqui- 
site folding in of the golden hours, than this up at 
Frank's, so utterly beyond the chances of intrusion ? I 
suppose the key-note, however, was in that sharp wail of 
the wind outside. Let me get away, I may have said, 
whore I can talk a little with that chap. From earliest 
childhood I have had a strange liking for sad and 
mournful sounds. They arc a kind of nutriment to me ; 
and when I feel happiest, I am most likely to break out 
in some di mal hymn, which, for some unaccountable 
reason, has for me, as I have said, this strange fascina- 
tion. But right in the very climax of such a time, my 
wife will come up and beg me not to do so : lur, strange 
to say, the efiiect upon her is not a happy one ; and Joy 
even tosses her head at it. It is evident she has a gentle 



232 Up-Country Letters. 

contempt for that kind of music. I had attempted one 
of the old Methodist tunes, when I first sat down, — being 
anxious to make the most of my time, — but failed, and 
as aforesaid, napped instead. 

It was more than an hour after I fell asleep, that 
Tim came in, asking what I would have for dinner. 
" Why, bless me, Tim," said I, " I've only just break- 
tasted." " You breakfasted very late then, sir : its two 
o'clock, and will be dark directly." " Tim," said I, "can 
you get me a bit of chicken, that's fat and hearty, and 
not too old, Tim, broiled gently, and just a little brown ?" 
" That's precisely what I have been doing, sir ;" said the 
old man, — "for 1 remember that you always likes a broil." 
"And Tim," said I, "is there ever a bottle of famous 
old wine, (all, sir, never fear,) that Mr. Bryars has left 
in some dusty corner, (will make your mouth water, sir,) 
or may be in some cupboard, or possibly in the garret, 
behind the north chimney, or may De you have the 
key," — "Sure," shouted Tim, who was nearly out of pa- 
tience, — " I can find ye forty of them, if ye like," — and 
disappeared again in the dark passage. He appeared 
again, shortly, with a white apron, and directly before 
the great fire arranged a little old-fashioned table, which 
might have been a large stand, except that it had legs 
like tables. Standing for a moment by this small affair. 



Singing "China." 233 

after the ilinner was all complete, he asked, "Will your 
IioiKir have your wine now?" — and uncorking a dusty 
bottle, the old servant departed again. 

Dinnei', oli Pi'ofessor, is the great event, eh ! Not 
often is it so with me : but for some reason, the little 
pullet which Tim had broiled for me, had an unusual 
savor ; or was it that choice old Burgundy, which they 
say can never be bi'ought over seas, and yet here it was, 
sweet as nuts. There was also a little carafon of old 
port ; and cigars I had found in a drawer of Frank's 
secretary. Ah ! what would T. say, what Avould Joy 
and Tidy say, what would my father say, at the sight 
of this broken down man dining in such Palais Royal 
style ! The peculiar thing in the transaction being, you 
observe, that T., and Joy, and Tidy, were not there. 
Hurra ! Hurr-rr-ah ! Ah, Professor, if you could have 
heard me sing "Jim Crack Corn," it would have 
done your heart good. I began with " Jim Crack Corn," 
and " Old Uncle Ned," as being upon the outer borders 
of those sad strains, which I kept as bonnes bouchcs, and 
in which I could exhaust myself of this fatal passion. I 
was engaged in Dundee, when Tim came in and found 
me striding solemnly about the room, while Growler 
walked slowly up and down, and whenever the accent 
was peculiarly touching, the old dog howled, for a mo- 



234 Up-Country Letters. 

ment, and then ceased till I came around again to the 
same spot. 

" Now, Tim," said I, pouring him a glass of wine, 
" we will drink to the health and long life of our friends 
over sea ; and you shall sing me an ould country 
song." Tim, having already laid in a small supply of 
cider, was quite ready ; and after tossing off his glass of 
port, he embarked in, perhaps the most dismal and 
wind-shrieking- song that Ould Ireland ever produced. 
It was positively dreadful ; and I directly called to him 
to stop a moment, as I had something to suggest. 
" Tim," I cried, and with no little excitement, " can you 
sing China ?" (I had kept " China" as the event of the 
day: as after "China" there is nothing, absolutely 
nothing, that makes any approach to that depth of de- 
spair, so desirable in this kind of music.) " Well," said 
Tim, " it's likely I can sing it. I'm convanient at most 
of those tunes of yours. Haven't I heard you and | 
Master Frank singing them, all alone to yom'selves ?" 

AVe started, therefore, with China, myself walking 
up and down, and rocking to and fro in the going-oflf 
spots, while Tim threw his arms about like a madman, 
and Growler now howled continually. Ah, Professor, 
it was very grand : it was more, it was glorious ! or, as 
an old Connecticut friend of mine used to say, " grand, 



Singing "China." 235 

glorious, and magnificent." But, in tlie very midst of 
it, and high over the highest reach of Tim's voice, was 
now heard another — sharp and sky-piercing, and now, 
as we sto2>ped to hsten to it — low, and dying slowly 
away. 

" Tim," said I, " do you hear that ? Is any one up- 
stairs, or in the garret, or may be down cellar ?" 

" Niver a soul in the house but us, yer honor" — and 
we proceeded again. " Whij — should — loe — mourn — 
de-2)ar-ar-ted-da — " and again rose that cry, and now it 
said — if it said any thing — " Zariar ! Zariar I Mr. Pun- 
dison /" In a moment, I raised one of the south win- 
dows, and behold in the distance, oh Professor, behold, 
I say — the round face of my blessed wife just above the 
snow, her arms hanging upon the surfoce, and all the rest 
of the lady entirely gone ! It was a sight, sir ! Just be- 
hind her was Joy, leaning back in the snow, and laugh- 
ing her eyes out. Nearer was Rover, in a deep hole, 
his nose seen occasionally above it as he struggled to 
get out ; and ferther off, Pompey — who was entirely 
out of sight, in a deep cavity, and only known to be 
there by his barking incessantly. They had wandered 
a little from the way, into a ditch which had drifted full 
of soft snow. 

I jumped through the window, and cautiously ap- 



236 Up-Country Letters. 



! 



proaclaing Mrs. P., tlirew my arms around her, and cried 
out, " Give me a kiss for good morning." Then it was, 
sir, that I saw Mrs. P. had come out in *' * * *. This 
had been her ruin. She had dropped immediately 
through all the depths. It was only by spreading her 
arms, that Mrs. Pundison kept herself afloat. 

And now, sir, shall I tell you how we escaped from 
those depths, and how those ladies insisted upon tasting 
the wine, and making little notes and memorandums 
(solemn things, sir, to a husband) of what had been go- 
ing on ? Under the circumstances, not more glad were 
they than I, to get back again to our old established 
home : to the round table, and the curtains, and the 
hall-stove, and the thermometers. 

T. has said, since, that it was plain the wine had got 
in my head ; for, immediately after tea, I had gone to 
sleep in my chair, and did not wake till ten o'clock : 
and, besides, it Avas years since I had kissed her in the 
snow. I have been of opinion that it was the wind that 
made me so sleepy, but the fact, I suppose, is not to be 
doubted. As I awoke, and we all drew a little closer to 
the fire — for it was bitter cold — T. came uj), and in that 
confiding way which a wife so well understands, asked 
me to say what it was that took me up to Frank 
Bryars'. " Will you promise," I said, " never to men- 



Singing "Cuina." 237 

tion the little incident — never, upon pain of the * * * * 
and boots being produced ? All promised ; and I ex- 
pounded as follows: 

You know, my children, that we all have our little 
ways : or, rather, our little ways have us ; and we know 
it not. We are guided as by the wind, which goeth 
where it listeth. 

I tell you, very solemnly, that when I started this 
morning, I had no conception of any special act, other 
than to go up to Frank's ; but, with equal solemnity, I 
tell you that I believe the whole motive — hidden and 
concealed away, like fine gold — from the veiy start, all 
through the walk in the snow, all through the house- 
hold ai-rangements, through dinner, through every thing, 
up to that piercing scream of yours — was to sing China ! 

T. smiled faintly as I said this ; and Joy was on 
the vei'ge of a laugh, which I checked instantly with a 
severe look ; and immediately retired for the night. 

" Zany dear," said Mrs. P. just as I was going to 
sleep, " did you get through singing China .^" " My dear 
wife," said I, " I have exhausted China for six months 
to come." Z. P. 



XIV. 

Utto-pir's gai, 1851. 

Happily an-ived are we, my laughing Professor, and I 
joy to say, — stouter and better than we have been for 
many a day. We have come up into the New- Year 
with great force. Every thing round about is so snug 
and wintry. Not less than two feet of snow all over 
this great state, and upward extending — it is supposed 
— to the North Pole itself. Every day come in reports 
of trains caught fast in the drifts ; and the great South- 
ern Mail comes ohce a week, and then, with stacks upon 
stacks of papers and letters. Nobody travels. Nobody 
thinks of it. But every body looks out the window to 
see the great drifts all over the fences ; and the people 
breaking road, with horses, and oxen, and drags, what 
time, — that is to say, — the weather will permit ; for 



New-Year's Day. 239 

mostly we are down to tlie Great Belsliazzar, from one 
week to another. 

As I was saying, — this state of things, for a high up- 
country latitude, is es2)ecially pleasant. It is nice to be 
blocked in, safe from all intrusion : to have great fires 
all to ourselves ; and read stories of the Greenlandei's 
and the wonders of the Arctics. So charmingly as the 
days and the long nights interchange, so smoothly, and 
all as in one continuous dream, if any man, — not my 
most particular friend, — should now make his appear- 
ance, I should look upon him more or less as a burglar. 
I should be willing to bargain with him, I suspect, to 
come in the night instead and carry off what silver 
spoons he could find, if so be he did it quietly, and did 
not disturb my dreams. If I saw him at the garden 
gate, for instance, I would send Bob out to him with 
that proposition. He would be a little shocked, per- 
haps, but shocks, you know, have the advantage of a 
pleasant reaction. 

Or we might make one or two exceptions. I would 
say to Bob, — " If it's Ilazelbush, or Aps Appleby, let them 
come in ; but warn them not to stamp too hard, or come 
in coughing and making a great noise, as I am in a 
dream to-day, and must not be waked suddenly." 

But yesterday was an exception. Yesterday was 



240 Up-Country Letters. 

open doors. Any body and every body whosoever was 
welcome to come and drink coffee and eat pound-cake, 
to their stomachs' content. With that view, a great 
wood-fire was made in the parlor, at an early hour, and 
kept up unblushingly through the day. T. and Joy and 
Tidy were to sit there all day, and pretend to be occu- 
pied with books, while in fact, they were half the time 
spying out the windows to see who was coming. I be- 
gan the day, myself, with high consideration. It was 
scarcely day-light when I gave T. a little shake, and 
wished her a Happy New- Year." 

I had quite a nap after that, and then astonished 
Joy and Tidy in the same way. This not being fully 
satisfactory, however, I resolved upon a . kind of April 
game; and while dressing in a little curtained-roora 
over the hall, and which is accessible by voice to all 
parts of the house, — called to T., who was preparing 
breakfast. " Little T.," said I, quite loud,— and little T. 
came running to the hall stairs, — " what is it, dear ?" 

" Happy New-Year !" was the important intelligence, 
to which I heard a fiint " oh !" and a little laugh as of 
one at the bottom of a well. 

Before I had left my little one-windowed room, the 
" New- Year," forgotten for the moment, and occupied 
as is not unusual at such times, with a stave out of Old 



New-Year's Day, 241 

Hunclrecl, or a cliant, or an old song, I heard my wife 
calling to mc fi-om some quarter, and supposed break- 
fiist was ready, " Zariali," said that lady, " Zarry dear," 
— " TFAa/!," said I, quite loudly. " Happy New- Year :" 
and then a laugh, which rang through all the house, 
and to which Joy and Tidy added with all their might. 
About this time, Little Gem broke in at the front door, 
all covered with snow, shouting at the top of her voice, 
*Ha]3py New- Year to one and all! Where's Uncle 
Zach ? Uncle Zach, happy New- Year 1" and away she 
flew, crying out, " I spoke first." 

We breakfasted. After a while came a few strag- 
glers, and in due time we dined : having no partiality 
' for chicken-salad and sour wine. But I shall not de- 
I scribe the day to you. The sport was in dodging the 
infliction of that " Ilappy New-Year :" and usually, when 
any one was addressed, the party very wisely declined 
to look or rejily to it, in any manner, for fear of the ap- 
I plication. At last came night and bed-time. The game 
I seemed to be used up, and we were rather tired of it. 
') In fact, it had become distressingly common. But just 
' before going to sleep, I turned to Mrs. P. suddenly, as 
I though I had a veiy bright thought. " Little T.," said I, 
— " I'll tell you one thing," — and waited a moment. 
"What is it, dear?" said T., rousing herself. 
11 



2^2 Up-Countey Letters 

"Happy New-Year !" 

"Oh my 1" said T., "but I'll tell you lohat, Zany." 

" What ?" said I. 

" Happy New- Year !" and so laughing ourselves to 
sleep, New- Year's Day was over. 

Addio, Z. P. 



XV. 

Jannary 15, 1851 . 

You ask me, Professor, the reason of the long lapse in 
our correspondence, and kindly inquire if I am too ill 
to write. It would have made you blush, sir, to have 
heard me laugh, when I read that tender inquiry. Why, 
my unsophisticated Professor, I am uproariously well. 
That's the reason, sir, of my long silence, and a good 
enough reason, as it seems to me. Do you suppose, sir, 
that a man whose blood has come back to him, who 
wakes in the morning with a shout, who sleeps eight 
hours without winking, who has legs and arms, eyes 
and ears, and the other free royalties of a man, and 
lives in a world of sunshine, and air, and dogs, and all 
out-door glorifications, — I say, sir, do you expect this 
man will be content to spin out his mornings in sending 
you small up-country moralities and fiddle-de-dees ? 



244 Up-Country Letters. 

And now, sir, when these great creatures of God,— 
the stars and worlds of the Universe, — are whirling on 
in their charming maze of motion; and everything that - 
He has made, — lives and moves, — changes and gets onj| 
in some fashion of travel, — and is not now what it was 
yesterday : in these days, sir, of steam, and rail, and 
telegraph, do you suppose, — is it to be supposed, — that 
a man, look you, is to take no i:)art in these prodigious 
on-goings and over-goings ? that a man is not to grow 
so much as a hickory sapling ! — is not, sir, to open his 
arms to the world ! — to make his mark ! — to expand — 
to enlarge himself — to enlarge the world — to add, as it 
were, to the universe of things ? Do you not know, • 
sir, that — nolens volens — we travel not less than 24,000 
miles every day of our lives ? That a ray of light start- 
ing from one of the fixed stars, has, j^erhaps, not yet 
arrived ? That if you were now shot out of a bomb, it 
would take, at a Paixhan rate of motion, trintillions of 
years before you would reach the first landing-place out- 
side our solar system, — that it begins to be suspected, 
sir, that what we have seen of the uinverse is — nothing; 
nothing, sir, — only a point, as it were, and that in re- 
gard to what we do see, we know, as it were, nothing, 
absolutely nothing, except the prodigious consciousness, 
sir, of knowing nothing — and in this tremendous state 



Protest. 245 

of things, am I, sir, to shut my mouth, and leave every 
thing as it happens? to play at riddles and conun- 
drums in this foolish up-countiy, when there is work, 
work, work, look you, and half the millions of the earth 
crazy, or mad, or drunk, and reeling, reeling down into 
the misty Future, where as yet, comes not the morning, 
but all lies shadowy and dim ! 

No, sir, this individual is himself again. Speak to 
every body to that effect. Say, sir, that Z. P. is on 
hand, and may be counted upon from this time. 
In short, 

Yours, Z. P. 



XVI. 

Pun. House, Up-C, Feb. '51. 1 1 

All in a jingle to-day, sir, jingle, jangle, jam ! Exuber- 
ance of healtli. Fullness of blood. Bad. Very bad. 
Only the word bad is feeble. But all words are tame — 
good for nothing. AU human language is artificial and 
vague. Beasts have a way of talking. How they 
scream and roar, upon occasion. I'm a beast to-day — 
a howling hyena — a black bear. 

It's the power that's in me — the vim. Now is the 
time, if I had something to do, to do it. In regard to 
that, however, I once wrote (it's in a book of morals, 
sir, which I am preparing, when my health is sufficiently 
bad) that a man who could not find abundant chances 
of doing good in this world, must be in a very small 
corner. Easy to "preach. 



Bum. 247 

Ball! 

Bah, is pretty good, but I'll show you something. 

Biz — z — z — z ! 

Feeble, but it expresses a little. 

After all bah is not bad, eh ? Of course not : it is 
bah ! 

But we don't stop here, sir : let us see, now ; biz, 
buz, boz, bah. Biz — buz, biz — bah (pshaw !) Bum ! 

There you have it, sir ; that hits the mark. 

But then again. Biz — bum ? Bah — bum 3 

No. Bum ! 

Only it's not legitimate — not in the dictionary. 

However, what is Webster ? There is no longer 
any invention. There is nothing, nothing new under 
the sun ; and I doubt if there is any sun, or moon, or 
stars. All imagination. 

Ah, what a day we have had, howling, blowing, 
snow-squalling. I'm going to bed, but don't expect to 
sleep a wink. I shall wink, however : wink, and wink, 
all night. Do nothing else. Devils will be about, and 
processions of little people six inches high. I know 
them. See them often. All making faces and doing 
the siUiest things. All gaping, sneezing, blowing in 
tin-horns, ringing bells — Scat ! 

Oh, my dear stand-by, my prop, my great moun- 



248 Up-Country Letters. 

tain, wliere are you ? I'm coining to a crisis. Only 
for the smell, now, I should smash that lamp all to frit- 
ters. I'll pull T.'s hair, handsful. What will she do ? 
She will cry " Fire — mui'der," and so forth. 

Oh, come to me, my great friend, my quondam, 
come, come, come quick ; for every thing is wrong. 

Jjum, however, is a treasure : great, isn't it ? 

Bim also, and, perhaps, Bam. 

Ah, no — there's nothing in the world: nothing, 
nothing, nothing. Nothing^ I say, but this abominable, 
devil-full, paltry, weak, crazy, and all-horrid Z. P. ! ! 



XVII. 

f ulprit^ 0f fcaltlr* 

January 25th, 1351. 

It is astonishing, my dear Professor, how quickly every 
thing wears out. Health, one would say, is a very grand 
thing. 

Sir — it is a grand humbug ! Reckless, tom-boyish, 
tm-bulent : careless of others, and thoughtful of nothing 
but the crazy dance of its own blood. 

I shudder, already, at the manner I have been fling- 
ing about. Why, sir, I was as dogmatical as the Pope 
of Rome. My people became much alarmed, as you 
may suppose ; and, in short, I am only now partially 
restored, by a smart attack of neuralgia ; which is in 
time, we hope, to prevent further calamity. 

Looking back upon the few past weeks, I ask my- 
self is it possible that I have been eating sausage, tur- 
key, corned beef, tongue, head-cheese, and such-Hke all- 
11* 



260 Up-Couktry Letters, 

fatty and niglitmare preparations ? Is it a fiction, that 
on one demented day, I swallowed a glass of sour 
poison called wine ? and then undertook a cigar ! And 
can a man be said to have his reason when he does such 
things ? I suspect not. I think not. I am sure he has 
not. 

But there is another consideration which, though it 
makes me blush a little, truth requires that I should 
mention. I was not only getting common, but I was 
becoming responsible. Before, while invalid, I was set 
apart : I could go to sleep, right before people. I could 
be — and here allow me to blush — I could be slightly 

cr , say wayward and peculiar, because I was an 

invalid. It was expected of me that I would snooze, 
and dream, and tell my dream on waking, and no one 
should smile at my simplicity, but rather make much 
of it, and say how curious it was, and how wonderful. 
No one else — it was said — could dream so : no one ever 
did : no one ever could ! 

But, in health, I was expected to do things. I was 
elected vestry-man. I was made chairman of a com- 
mittee. I was requested to addi-ess the Society ! 

Ah, Professor,T can't afford to be well. It is too 
much for me. It is crushing. My shoulders are not 
built for it. Let me grumble again, I say, and tumble 



Vulgarity of Health. 251 

o' nights. What's the use of sleeping all night, and 
having no bouts \vith the rheumatism — no trembling 
submissions to some racking headache ? What is 
morning, if you please, to one who goes to bed and gets 
up and remembers nothing between ? It is not morn- 
ing : it is only the next event after evening. 

And, Professor, is it uncharitable — is it ungracious 
in me — to hold out the possible idea that there is in 
high health, a certain vulgar — eh ? a something — that 
is to say, do you not perceive that it is peculiarly — eh ? 
(the commonness of it is, of course, very evident, but) 
what I mean is a certain indefinable — in fine, do you 
consider it high-bred ? 

These thoughts will engage me occasionally, and I 
don't scruple, between ourselves, to assert the essential 
vulgarity of unmitigated health. No gentleman, sir, is 
ever extravagantly well. 

I look back upon myself, sir, during those ebullient 
weeks, as upon an animal — a baboon ! a wandering 
nightmare ! an embodied cruelty, with a heart like the 
nether mill-stone. 

I said, or was about to say, somewhere in this letter, 
that an old neuralgic friend had called lately upon me, 
and, as you may suppose, we have talked up these things 
considerably. Perhaps the tone of my remarks may be 



252 Up-Country Lktters. 

due, in some distant way, to his suggestions. My friend 
is rather practical in his jokes ; but Uving so retired as 
we do, one becomes, no doubt, unreasonably fastidious, 
and we must never judge too quickly. Professor, for the 
world is large and various. Yours, Z. P. 



XVIII. 

Pundiaon House, Up-Country, ) 
Jan. SOth, 1851. { 

I MENTIONED tlie Other day, sir, that an acquaintance 
had called to advise me a little upon matters of diet, and 
so forth ; and it's not unlikely I expressed myself rather 
obliged, than otherwise, for his kindness. But you will 
believe me, sir, that I did not expect the old fellow was 
going to stay all winter ; or that his convei-sation was 
so limited, that he could speak of nothing but sausage 
and black tea. 

He has a way of giving me a poke under the fifth 
rib — a spot where I am always shy of pokes — and then 
singing out at the top of his voice — "Sausage!" — 
" Black Tea ! — " Buckwheat cakes !" almost choking 
himself with some joke which he pretends to see in that 
connection. 

If I ask him to explain, he gives me a long lecture 



254 Up-Country Letters. 

upon all lands of dissipatioh, going over, my dear Pro- 
fessor, tlie most hackneyed notions about diet and exer- 
cise ; and actually pretending that I ought to live on 
bread and potatoes. He pokes me almost incessantly. 
If I get up to walk ; if I bend over slightly, as at this 
writing ; if I smell at a sausage, or take in the merest 
whiif of the ambrosia of Souchong ; if I sneeze, cough, 
laugh, or take a long breath, he gives me the inevitable 
poke — enough to take a man's life away — and flings at 
me, as aforesaid, with an insufferable twang — those dis- 
mal stupidities. 

I can hardly say when I am rid of him. He lodges 
with us, but doesn't appear to care about sleeping. He 
is up usually till midnight toasting his feet, and sipping 
hot punch ; and I doubt if he sleeps more than an hour 
in all night. If I wake in the night (and I do, now, 
every hour or so, until morning), I am sure to see my 
friend standing close by the bed, in night-cap and dress- 
ing-gown, with a candle in his hand, laughing immode- 
rately. As soon as he gets breath, he remarks — " You 
must have observed, Mr. Pundison (poke) — I say, sir, 
you must have suspected, at least (poke) — in fact, you 
are probably pretty well satisfied, now, that sausages 
(poke) and the like, are not suitable to a man of your 
peculiar idiosyncracies." Poke — poke — poke — and the 



Neuralgia. 265 

fellow goes on saying the most stupid things imaginable. 
I close ray eyes, and pretend not to hear. If I was to 
say a word, I should wake Mrs. P., and I don't care to 
get her mixed up in these controversies. 

In fact, she rather sides with the old villain ; though 
she confesses that he is very rude. 

I sleep, however, after a fashion, and when morning 
comes, I say to myself — Just wait till I'm dressed, and 
observe what a peculiarly interesting kind of a thrashing 
I shall give the old scamp. 

I proceed to bathe, and get on very well until in 
dressing, just as I get my left leg half-way through my 
trowsers, the villian steals in, and before I suspect that 
he's about, he gives me the usual stab ; and, of course, 
with his usual horrid exclamations. Can you imagine 
any thing more intensely inane ? 

I suppose, however, that I stand there nearly five 
minutes, with one leg out, and one leg in, before I get 
over that prodigious shock. Coming down to breakfast, 
we find him already at the table, stuffing himself with 
fried pork, tripe, and such-like delicacies ; and drinking 
bowl after bowl of strong coffee or tea. " Excellent for 
me," he says, " but for you, sir, X)i^on ! You must have 
perceived" — and he goes on with his string of fiddle- 
faddle, to which I give an air of listening and under- 



256 Up-Country Letters. 

standing, for fear of his raising his voice to an unendura- 
ble pitch ; for another of his absurd notions is, that I 
am a Uttle hard of hearing. Finding that he dreads 
water, I am discovering a way to dodge him. He never 
approaches me when I am bathing ; and I find an 
entirely safe retreat in my sitz-bath. 

As a position of defence, the sitz-bath has evident 
advantages : and I have always considered a man in 
that doubled-up position, as, in fact, a kind of battery ; 
a sort of fortification ! I shouldn't like to attack a man 
in a sitz-bath. 

Seated in a foot and a half of water, and surrounded 
with blankets, representing something like the figure of 
a truncated cone, I laugh at the old fellow, and call him 
all the hard names I can think of. But nothing avails 
to drive him out of the house. In a few hours he is 
about again, and as lively as ever. 

Well, Professor, the winter is going, and the old 
sausage-man can't live for ever. His day is fixed. For 
now, directly, when the frost goes out of the ground, and 
the wind comes up out of the south, and the ice goes 
out of the rivers, and the summer appears on the hori- 
zon, and the grasses spring up in the meadows, and all 
the little flowers get ready to blossom : — then, I say, 
this, my old crony, will have dwindled away. I shall 



Neuralgia. 257 

smile to see how thin lie is ; how lantern-jawed : and 
some morning brighter than usual, too bright in fact for 
the old grumbler to endure, he will say good-bye, and 
take his last trampoose. 

In this hope, sir, I live and continue, 

Yours, Z. P. 



XIX. 

Up-CoiiDtry, Febrimi-y, 1851. 

The winter holds tenaciously. Many as have been our 
cold days, they still come. This morning, at 6 o'clock, 
the thermometer, as reported by Bob, whom my father 
has trained thoroughly at making the observations, 
stood at 0-5°, which is to say, five times worse than 
nothing ; and now, at 4 o'clock, p. m. is at 0-2°, 

On such days, you may suppose we do not adventure 
into the outer world. If it happens to be Saturday, as 
is the case to-day, we merely finish the week. Odds and 
ends are picked up ; and a little extra airing and dusting, 
are I believe proper, — though I never witness such things, 
— and by noon the day becomes holiday. 

Pedlers and clockmenders happening around at such 
a time find a harvest. So it happened, this morning, 
that our great kitchen-clock, having for weeks past 



The Old Clock. 269 

pointed to half past eleven, we were veiy glad to see 
tlie clock-man make his appearance. 

Down came the great cap, the house or shell cover- 
ing the brains ; and little by little the wheels and cranks 
came out, and were dusted and oiled and readjusted, 
and at last put up again, and the work completed. 
Once more was heard the inevitable tick-tick-tick, the 
little purr just before striking, and then came the 
" twelve great shocks of sound." It was rich. 

The man went his way, his white breath following 
after in the frosty air, and my flither dined and took up 
his morning papers. Rover came down from the sofa, 
where he had been coiled all the morning (a sofa which 
Mrs, P. remarks to me at this moment has been twice 
covered to hide the pawings of that dog in making his 
imaginary soft spots for a night's rest) ; Rover came 
down, ate a bone or two, and put his two paws out on 
the hearth, and appeared to doze gently before the im- 
mense fire. Pompey did the same, and all was silent 
and serene. My father read his paper to page No. 3, 
when his hat canted back, his spectacles slid down 
slightly, and he slept. A little while afterwards, while 
sitting in our room, I was surprised by a striking of the 
great clock, which was one of the most wonderful per- 
formances perhaps you ever heard. How many times 



260 Up-Country Letters. 

it struck, nobody will ever know. It was proper for it 
to strike three, but that, sir, would be but a small frac- 
tion of its performance at this time. Wlien I went out 
I found my father looking at it over his spectacles, with 
unwonted severity of countenance, the clock being still 
in full blast, and no signs of coming to a conclusion. 
My father turned to me, and remarked with great com- 
posure, that he had counted twenty-five, and was too 
tired to go on. I replied that it was probably making up 
for lost time, it not having struck at all for some weeks. 
My father took no notice of the observation, but imme- 
diately took up his paper, and was all absorbed in page 
No. 4. When I left the room, it appeared to have a few 
more of the same sort left, and was bringing them out 
with great spirit and precision. The result will doubtless 
be that I shall have to look to the old clock myself. I 
used to manage it, and I think it would be very strange 
if I couldn't keep it from such mere extravagances, Avhich 
are so highly unbecoming to a clock of its years and 
dignity. 

Twenty-five o'clock will never do, Professor, even in 
these fast days of this nineteenth century. I was not 
unhappy at its being continually half-past eleven. There 
was a repose in those hands, pointing always to the same 
hour, that pleased me. Its suggestion was of rest and 



The Old Clock. 261 

peace, and a sublime indifference to the great on-goings 
of the world. From this state of quiet and gentlemanly 
composure, to rush at once into twenty-five o'clock, indi- 
cates a sad state of things, and suggests that it will soon 
be impossible for the old clock to ever again get cleverly 
and properly beyond the half-past eleven. And we must 
all come to that soon. Professor. It will soon be half- 
past eleven with us, and clock-time will be over. 

The day wears on, shai-p and keen as ever ; the mer- 
cury still 2 below, and what is curious, in such an ex- 
treme of cold, a fine snow is falling through the cloud- 
ed atmosphere, but slowly and sparsely. Mrs. P. 
sits straight before the fire, her hair above her ears 
(it being Saturday,) singing and looking in the bright 
fire, Joy is close by behind a screen, — with her feet 
going through to the blaze — sewing, and paying no at- 
tention at all to !Mrs, P., while Tidy is rocking gently 
in the groat scarlet rocker, weaving patiently by little 
and by little, a strange tissue of gold and silver, and is 
alike unconscious of us all. 

What my wife is singing is beyond any ordinary 
conjecture. Nobody knows, and I doubt if she knows 
herself, or thinks at all about it. Very straight she sits, 
and sings — now up, now down, and looks and looks into 
the blazing fire : and so, oh Professor, goes this February 



262 Up-Country Letters, 

day ; queer and odd, no doubt, but it carries us on all 
tbe same. Whatever the old clock may do, we make 
no pause. Addio, Z. P. 



XX. 

I. 



Up-Conntry, Februftry. 

As I liave betimes remarked to you, Professor, — you are 
not to know all things. Neither am I. But some 
things are permitted, and upon the margin of these — 
the known and absolute — we can make figures and sug- 
gestions, outlining the future, as by a kind of careless 
inspiration. 

And, fortunately, it is not so pleasant to know as 
to guess. To have one truth — what is it but to guess 
and grasp at another, and another, and another ? Is 
there any absolute rest 1 Is there any maximum of ac- 
quisition, beyond which is no guessing ? 

Tidy, who is lying asleep in the great rocker, seems 
to have reached that maximum. At the first glance, 
she looks a picture of rest and peace. But look closer, 
and you perceive a flush upon her face, and one thin 



264 Up-Coui^^try Letters. 

lock of liair that lias escaped, glistens as with late 
tears. 

She has seemed very happy all day. In one hand 
is clasped lightly, a note, — doubtless from Frank, — and 
from within is seen something gold-rimmed, like a locket. 
Only for this carelessness of sleep, I never should have 
seen it. 

" The lady sleeps ! Oh may her sleep, 
As if^s lasting, so be deep !" 

Some days since we were all discussing Frank, and 
with that perverse ingenuity which we all sometimes 
have, T. and Joy had been diligently hard upon him, 
and I equally shai-p in his defence. I could have said 
the same things, but I would not listen to the same from 
another. Tidy, during the discussion, had said nothing, 
but the needles which she was using flashed like a 
weaver's shuttle. 

By and by, we were left alone, and I had gone down 
into that silent land which I tell you so much about, 
for my after-dinner travel, when suddenly I felt the fan- 
ning, as of warm air upon my forehead, and the soft 
touch of lips. Opening my eyes slowly, I was just in 
time to see the fading outline of Tidy, stealing away 
quickly to her room. It was her vote. 



Tidy. 265 

And now as slie sleeps, I could win back my gloves. 
But I will do something better. I will pull this tuft of 
lace carelessly over the locket, and so, waking suddenly, 
as she will soon, she will not be shocked with the fear 
that I have discovered her secret. 

" The lady sleeps ! Oh may her sleep, 
As it is gentle, so be deep ! 
Heaven have her in its sacred keep !" 

But hush ! — she is waking. What does she say ? 
she speaks so low, and I don't like to listen, for she is 
talking to Frank. She sees nothing as yet, although 
her eyelids are open : her voice is low and faint, almost 
to a whisper. 

Mr. Pundison laughs loudly and sings a little song. 

And now — slowly — she wakens, and putting back 
her hair, says, — still dreaming, — " Eh ? Who is it ? 
Who? Who?" 

" It is Mr. Pundison, or Z. Pundison, Esq." 

" Mr. Pundison !" she answers, looking at me in a 
wondering way, " Mr. Z. Pundison ?" 

" Yes, that is to say, it is I — and what has Tidy 
to say ?" 

" Oh nothing," she says, quickly ; a swift flush, like 
an aurora mantling her face : " Nothing," — looking out 



266 Up-Country Letters. 

tlie window in a long steady gaze, — " nothing at all, — 
it was a dream." 

She leans lier head upon the little table ; till pre- 
sently the tears come crowding her eyes so fast, she 
rises gently and with quick gliding steps, like a dream, 
— a beautiful dream which we would keep, if we could, 
— she is gone. 

I must have my nap, however, and to that end, sir, 
Addio, Z. P. 



XXI. 

Feb. 17, '61. 

I SUPPOSE, Professor, you are able to tell the exact 
moment, to a fraction, wlien any star will cross the 
meridian, or any planet wlieel into tlie field of your up- 
ward-pointing thirty-two pounder. You know the very 
needle-point of time when this will be : so that surprises 
in life seem to you, no doubt (by this continual working 
out and demonstrating of facts), not surprises merely, 
but blunders. You say to yourself, do you not, when 
extraordinary things occur, " I should have known this : 
I could have known it : I oiiffkt to have known it." 

Such was our case on Sunday morning, when it was 
announced through the whole house — the report reach- 
ing even to my dressing-room — that our Tib had a little 
heifer ! 

Of all the household my father only was entirely 



268 Up-Country Letters. 

calm. He has an account of every tiling in red chalk, 
and was prepared. Not so Bob, who was so excited 
that he flew out bareheaded and barefooted, and in his 
shirt only, though the morning was raw and pointedly 
disagreeable. The first impressions to any creature 
arriving in the world, in such weather, must be dismal 
to a degi-ee. 

I went out in the afternoon to look at the arrival, 
but discovered nothing of special note. It is very calf-y ; 
blunders and kicks about, apparently to the entire satis- 
faction of Tib, who says " boo — boo," to all its perform- 
ances, and looks a world of delight : a continual stare of 
wonder and fear. 

The dogs walked down stiffly, with their tails curled 
tightly on their backs, and looked through the pickets 
with one foot lifted, and their noses twisting about as 
they snuffed delicately at the prodigy. This was as 
much as they dare do ; so fierce is the mother. Rover 
evidently remembers how she chased him last summer 
the whole length of the pasture, he escaping, as you may 
say, only by the skin of his teeth, and a quick jump at 
a six-foot fence. I say he appears to remember that 
transaction. But it is very easy to stand at a distance 
and bark; and a more outlandish thing than a calf, 
doubtless, a dog never saw. As to that thief of a black 



The Tibling. 269 

rascal that stole into the pasture last summer, and got 
the blind side of Tib, his day is up. His expectations, 
if he had any, must be effectually quashed by this event. 

As I have said, the calfishness of this heifer is a per- 
fect success. Nothing could be more satisfactorily awk- 
ward to its mother, one would say, than its buttings, its 
sudden paralytic shocks, its exquisite blunderheadedness. 
In fact, I believe Tib is content. All day she stands by 
the stable door, waiting the joyous moment when this 
charming piece of awkwardness will be let out for her 
supper. What a great time is that ! What boo-ooings, 
and ululations ! What wild looks against any possible 
enemy ! Fiery dragons, as it were, in her eyes, mingled 
with such swimming devotion to that booby of a calf. 

Stand back, she says, stand back, all of you that 
don't want to be torn into ten thousand fi-agments, while 
my little heifer is getting her supper. Boo-oo ! boo-oo ! 

On the whole, it was pleasant to have this happen 
on Sunday. Certainly no reasonable man could object, 
all things considered — I say no one could object to it. 
I will not deny, however, that it gave the day rather a 
festive character : too much so, I mean. Blustering and 
sour as was the weather, I went twice to church — a rare 
circumstance — and rarer still, my wife caught herself, 
just at twilight, singing " Love Not," mistaking it for 



270 Up-Country Letters. 

" Come ye disconsolate." Now, this happens not unfre- 
quently to myself — I mean the singing, for one or two 
abstracted moments, some song or melancholy air, think- 
ing it to be a solemn hymn suitable for the day. My 
wife is quick to detect such improprieties, and does it in 
her happiest way, but with a serious earnestness that is 
always successful. I need not say, therefore, how inex- 
pressibly shocked she was to-day, when she discovered 
herself humming such a profane song. 

Good-bye, Professor. We intend to raise this young 
Tibling ; and, next summer, if you come up, you shall 
put eyes on the beauty. Like her mother, she is of a 
beautiful red color, and her back straight as a hickory 
sapling. Yours, Z. P. 



XXII. 

Up-Country, Feb., 1851. 

But a few days since, sir, I wrote you of weather so 
cold and sharp — five below the Zero — and now it is 
raining slowly, and the quicksilver has gone up to 46. 
The snow is fost leaving the meadows, and in the hol- 
lows little ponds are forming, and discharging here and 
there into the highway, or down the river-bank. The 
sky is dark and clouded every where, but the wind hav- 
ing retired, it is still and silent as was that dreamy and 
clock-striking Saturday. 

So is it out of doors ; and in-dooi-s it is the hour 
when we are usually quiet. It is three o'clock, p. m. ; 
and I am but just brealdasted. All the morning I staid 
in bed, too poorly to rise, and hardly ill enough to so 
waste a whole half day out oi a life so short. Now and 
then I made littlo efforts, but sank back again, easily, 



2*72 Up-Country Letters. 

and went on dozing and half-dreaming, and caring pre- 
cious little, I suspect, for the great world and its doings. 
Said Tennyson (though I doubt if he ever meant to say 
it in print)— 

Half the night I waste in sighs ; 

Half, ia di'eams I sorrow after 
The hand, the lip, the eyes, 

The winsome laughter ! 

Not so do I. I waste no time upon sighs ; and as 
to the hand, the lip, the eyes, the winsome laughter, I 
see them and hear them all day. 

But most always in sleep, when I am well, or con- 
valescing, I come upon dream-pictures, long since com- 
pleted and perfected. One is among mountains (a wide 
river flowing smoothly between), where always upon 
rounding a spur — which I do with a full consciousness 
of the pleasure to come — down falls a beautiful cataract, 
wonderful to see ! Sometimes a friend who is with me, 
slips off the brink and goes sheer down into tlie foam, 
upon which I descend hastily, and grasping him by his 
coat-tail, draw him out safely ; and then we climb up 
and take another look, and wonder and are astonished 
beyond all expression. Shortly after this, it is time to 
wake. (My friend never drowns, or is any thing more 



The Late Morning. 273 

than pleasantly shocked : I have already pulled him out 
three times this winter.) 

At eleven this morning, the mail arrived, and T. 
brought me up the letters. I roused myself sufficiently 
to go through with one from Aps Appleby, and one from 
the great city ; and to look at the cards of two people 
who have been so thoughtful as to send up from town, 
an invitation to their wedding. 

This broke in upon my dreams, and at last, with an 
heroic effort, I arose for the day. 

As I said, I have but breakfasted ; but already the 
night is about to ovei-shadow us : so dai-k and heavy is 
the sky. The house is unwontedly still. T. and Joy 
are up somewhere in those summer rooms, whither the 
white steam from the copper on the hall-stove curls 
itself lazily, the waters sm-ging about like the low wash 
of the sea under the windows of a ship. Tidy sits oppo- 
site in a scarlet jacket, swaying gently about in the 
great rocker ; and still weaving — nobody knows what 
— from those golden and silver stuffs which lie flashing 
in her lap like brilliants. My father, having just been 
through to look at the weather from the front door, has 
retm-ned again to his room, and is busy with the Satur- 
day papers. 

Was I dreaming this morning, or am I dreaming 
12* 



I 



274 XJp-CouNTRY Letters, 

now ? So still is it, and my brain so light from fasting, 
thought floats aAvay and leads me captive. My will 
goes from me, and I am as a man in some enchanted 
land. Is it more life now — I ask myself — than it was 
last night, in among those steep moimtains, and by that 
strange waterfall? 

It is well that not all the world are so idle. Doubt- 
less, all this day throughout the wide land (and to roll 
on all through the long night) the iron trains have been 
glancing over valleys, and around and through moun- 
tain-spurs, stopping for a moment, here and there, and 
then pushing on again with their hundreds and five 
hundreds of men and women, all bound for somewhere, 
and up for the day. Up and down the streets of the 
great cities, has pressed on — and still press on — the 
crowd ; busy, busy, and for ever busy : not dozing in 
still chambers, but up for the day. Out on the deep, 
the sailor boy has been aloft, rocking upon the broad 
arms of the ship and plunging in the foam ; and all over 
the land, people have been up and about, thrashing out 
something, whether in golden dreams, or tlie golden 
wheat. High in the Arctic seas, ships are riding in the 
ice-fields, with the pale sun glimmering every where 
upon the white expanse ; and afar away in the western 
wilds, here and there among the jagged mountains 



The Late Morning* 275 

small comjianies of haggard men and women, half 
crazed, half starved, but still with bright dreams of a 
home over the mountains, are struggling on to the land 
of gold : and so crazed are they with this brilliant to- 
morrow, they would hardly exchange with me, for my 
warm rooms and my up-country repose. 

The night comes. Slowly, slowly, over all : the rail- 
car and the steamer, the hunying citizen and the sailor- 
boy aloft, the ice-bound ship and the starving emigrant, 
— slowly, slowly, comes the 'night. Mother of all beau- 
tiful imaginings, home of all fantasies, weaver of things 
brighter than all precious stones ; welcome, welcome the 
nijjht. 



XXIII. 

March, Up-Country, 1851. 

In these hard winter days, Professor, I step back occa- 
sionally into the silent years of the Past. So it has 
happened that I have been thinking, this morning, of 
my grandfather, as I remember him twenty and twenty- 
five years ago : his hair-lip, his garments of ancient cut, 
and the shovel hat, not unlike the kind now worn by 
the English Bishops. I saw much of-him in those days, 
as only a garden separated his house from my father's. 
(I am talking now of twenty years ago : as my father 
has his "forty years ago," so I have my twenty.) 

My father was an adventurous young man, going 
here and there about the world as suited his humor. 

He came over from South Farms, married one of 

the old gentleman's daughters, and built him a, large 
stylish house just at the end of my grandfather's garden. 
Both houses were close by the road, and the road was 



Mr. Pundison's Guandfatuer. 277 

narrow ; but on either side was a strip of grass, and in 
process of time, I appeared and began ball-playing upon 
the green strip, on the west side of the road. 

At these times, on summer mornings, when we were 
getting well warm at bass-ball or wicket, my grandfather 
would be seen coming out of his little swing-gate, with 
the big hat aforesaid, and a cane. He enjoyed the game 
as much as the youngest of us, but came mainly to see 
lair play and decide mooted points. 

Putting on his glasses, he seated himself in the shade 
on the eastern piazza, and first carefully removed his 
hat, and then, as carefully,— his coat and shoes, which were 
to be put on again after he was thoroughly aired — in re- 
gard to which he had a theory which he discussed with 
my father, who had a very different theory, and always 
wore boots. They never could agi'ee, but it was a stand- 
ing topic, year after year. 

At this time poplars were growing before the house, 
and dozens of blackbirds would be chattering in the 
great crotches, where the trees had been cut off; and 
their singing was part of the entertainment. My grand- 
father's remarks, as he sat with his coat off on the pi- 
azza and talked to us and to liimseh", — the .shouts of the 
boys, and the gabble of those birds, — they were all in a 
mix, but all pleasant and jovial. 



278 Up-Country Letters. 

Sometimes, indeed, a little sharpened by sudden dis- 
putation, but soon to be smoothed down by my grand- 
father's winning way, and the pleasant sport to go on 
again more jubilant than ever ; and in a manner expres- 
sive, as we may say, of very high times. 

Those were the days, my old friend, when we said 
Codfish ! and By thunder ! Jimminetty ! and Gosh ! 
— but not very safely within hearing of the elders. The 
simpler forms, however, as c — d f — sh ! and g — sh ! (we 
must be proper now) were permitted, I believe ; but always 
considered a great privilege : a luxury, to be used rarely. 

Ah, what would I not give for a picture of my grand- 
father, as he looked in those hy-thunder days under the 
poplars : or, as he sat in his great chair, in the old beam- 
hung kitchen, across the garden : or, still better, as he 
looked in the great corner-pew of the old meeting-house. 
It is strange that I remember, now, but one prayer- 
meeting in the old meeting-house : one only, though it is 
doubtless a fair type of the many that I must have at- 
tended. On this occasion I carried my flute, to give 
my grandfather the key-note and accompaniment. — 
Wells was an especial favorite of his ; we undoubtedly 
sang it at this time, followed by J/ear, and it's not un- 
likely we may have had Chma : for China — was of 
those days. 



Mr. Pundison's Grandfather. 2V0 

I was not afi-aid of playing the flute. It was easy 
enough, and I hked to get an occasional look at my 
grandfather's face, the action of which might have been 
said to be a separate tune. I mean to say, that if the 
old gentleman had uttered no voice, but merely made 
the faces he did, it would have been as good as the best 
funeral hymn you ever heard. So massive and vigorous 
was the action. 

By humoring my grandfather's movement, I was 
able to keep in company with him, and we all came out 
together, save Aunt Patty, who, sitting some distance 
off, was always unfortunate in this respect. She seldom 
arrived in time. As she sang second treble, it was 
usually a kind of gentle descent, as of sliding down hill, 
which she had to make, and as she had a sweet voice, 
this last movement was always a pleasant one. After 
waiting until Aunt Patty had arrived, which my grand- 
father did very soberly, looking for a moment over his 
spectacles in her direction, he proceeded to deacon out 
the next stanza, and again I screwed my mouth down to 
the flute, and giving the key-note, away we started 
again; and sometimes I thought the movement alto- 
gether was very grand. It would have eased me very 
much — so excited did I get, when there were many 
voices — if I could have made faces like my gi-andfather, 



280 Up-Countby Letters. 

but of course that was impossible. (I made a continual 
fiice with my fkite.) Again we came to a close, and 
again Aunt Patty would be found upon the top of that 
high note, from which she descended with a flourish and 
easy grace that were inimitable. 

Under the singer's gallery sat Uncle L , with a 

bandanna round his head. He was a deacon. In 

another square pew, was Capt. Barny , red-faced 

and farmer-like. Opposite our pew. Squire was to 

be seen ; tall, gaunt and oratorical. Some one would 
now be called upon to pray. Sometimes it would be my 
grandfather himself, but it is strange that I do not re- 
member much about his prayers. But Cajitain Barny's 
are sounding in my ears at this moment. His prayer 
began usually in a quiet way, but proceeded rapidly to 
quick and sobbing petitions, and importunate wrestlings 
with the giver of all grace. I remember that it always 

seemed strange to me, at first, that Capt. should 

get so suddenly excited, but before he closed, my heart 
would begin to throb, my eyes fill Avith tears, and I 
would be borne away and away, with the same spirit. 

After the captain, would rise, perhaps, the tall form 

of Squire . After the earnestness of the former, 

the squire seemed voy cold and stately. There was no 
hesitation in his manner, but a deliberate statement of 



Mr. Pundison's Grandfather. 281 

affairs, and a sort of consciousness that they were not, 
after all, so bad as they might be. On this presumption, 
a kind of grand speech was made to the Throne, after 
which, the squire said Amen, very sharp and loud, and 
took his seat with an air of complacency. 

The character of my grandfather's prayere, I now re- 
member, was that of a winning tenderness ; but always 
calm and collected. His hair-lip gave an intonation to 
his words, that made his prayers seem wholly diflferent 
from any others, and it was seldoin that he closed, with- 
out being suffused with tears. A happier man never 
lived, but in this respect he w^as easily discomposed : 
slight things brought teai-s to his eyes. 

After the meeting was over, I rode home with him 
in that immensely wide one-horse wagon ; so wide that 
one wheel always ran outside the track : and by this 
time I sometimes drove the old horse myself. He was 
so fat that it evidently pained him to trot, but occasion- 
ally we succeeded in getting him into that movement. 
But his habit of groaning about it completely blinded 
my grandfather, and the result was that after such a 
ride, the old bay had more oats than he could make 
way with for a week. Ah, the old, old days — the days 
of long ago. Good morning. 

Z. P. 



XXIV. 

f fee ilii C^niuttintt Swukg. 

Up-Country, March, 1851. 

Continuing my researches among those old days, those 
pleasant old days, I find myself standing on the east side 
of the house, one Sunday morning, sunning myself, and 
revolving in my mind, a few small items in regard to 
matters and things in general. 

I had said darn it, or something equally profane, to 
the hired man ; and being overheard, had been tied up 
for a little time, to a poplar that stood by the meadow 
fence. I was now free again, and having had my neck 
and ears scrubbed and rubbed till they were full of blood, 
the soft and quiet beauty of the day was beginning to 
exert its power over me. The being tied up I considered 
abominable, but it was all over now, and Sunday, even 
then, was a beautiful day to me. 

So still was it, I could hear the bark of the squirrels 



The Old Connecticut Sunday. 283 

on the mountain over the river, and from the two moun- 
tains, east and west, the crows were cawing to each 
other, and occasionally crossing over, with a few short 
remarks on the way. About ten o'clock, a dust was 
seen down the road, and presently rattling by, with his 
horses on a long trot, went Captain Barny — who was so 
famous in prayer. 

My father at that day was inflexibly severe in his 
judgments, and I sometimes thought his opinion of Cap- 
tain Baniy's driving was not very flattering to that ardent 
man. My father never said a word to that efiect, but 
as he stopped shaving himself to see who was going by 
at such a jingling rate, and always finding it to be the 
Captain, he usually turned and looked at me with a 
kind of searching severity, as if to ease his mind of all 
responsibility in the matter ; and perhaps to suggest very 
remotely the high impropriety of that proceeding. Pre- 
sently up came Abel B., and his family, and not long 
afterward rolled by the coach of Uncle John. This was 
the only coach in the town. All others, with scarcely 
an exception, rode in open two-horse lumber wagons, 
with chairs and double seats mixed in together. The 
people I have mentioned, lived at a distance of three or 
four miles, and were obliged to start early to be sure 
and not get belated. We were within a mile and could 



284 Up-Country Letters. 

wait till nearer tlie hour of service. It would not do to 
wait long, however, and my father being always very 
prompt, we proceeded to lock up the house, and then, 
with the hired man to drive — my father sitting, with 
his arms folded, on one ofthe great double slat-bottomed 
chairs — we joined in the travel to the old Meeting-House. 
With a calm deliberation, the horses trotting gently on 
the level spots, we ascended the hill to Captain John 

M 's, from which across the valley, could be seen 

the Meeting-House steeple rocking in the air, and that 
great bell swinging its black mouth to the north and the 
south, and now hanging for a moment keeled up in the 
air, down to come again with a shock and clang which 
rang miles and miles away, from one hill to another, 
and finally at a great distance, died slowly among the 
mountains. 

Descending this hill with extreme care, and only 
easing the horses a little just at the foot, we drove on 
with some little spirit across the brook, and up the 
gentle ascent to the south door of the house. There 
were three great double doors, opening north, south, and 
east ; and two ranges of windows, one above the other, 
so that the galleries were as light as the seats below. 
The immense building was full of aisles, running around 
the great square pews, which were four-sided, and had 
a^j open lattice-work at top. 



The Old Connecticut Sunday. 285 

My father went up and toot a conspicuous seat in 
the Singers' Gallery. I have heard him say that the 
singers formerly filled the front seats in all the galleries, 
but that was not in my time. I sat with my mother in 
my grandtather's pew, from which, through the open 
door into the tower, I could see the bell-man pulling — 
and with how solemn a face — upon the rope which came 
down as from the sky itself, and sometimes lifted the 
man two or three feet in the air. IIow tremendous was 
all that to my boy-imagination — and the stairs winding 
and winding up that high tower — and the bats flying 
about in the dim light, and the smell of old timber rot- 
ting in the dark — tremendous it was, and tremendous it 
still is, in my memory. 

And now from behind that immense pulpit, up rises 

the minister — unseen before — and lifting his hands, 

j says. Let us pray. In the same moment rise here and 

i there, about the gi-eat house, old and young, men, 

women, and children, and looking to all points of the 

' compass, take various postures of prayer. Some stand 

y erect, with arms folded, and a kind of look of defiance. 

j Some lean upon the top of the pews ; some ease them- 

1 selves by resting one foot upon the seat ; and some do 

j not rise, but endeavor to find some posture in sitting, 

iliat is suitable for the occasion. Among the latter is 



286 Up-Country Letters. 

Aunt Patty, wlio sits and rocks herself to and fro ; and 
witli a half smile upon her face, and teai"s in her eyes, 
looks around occasionally upon the congregation, and 
again rocks herself into the highest devotion. 

As the minister says Amen, Aunt Patty takes a long 
breath, and every body coughs and makes as much noise 
as is possibly consistent with the occasion. The psalm 
or hymn is then given, omitting always the third and 
fourth verses ; and my father blows gently in a httle 
cedar pitch-pipo, and catching the note, he sounds the 
key for the treble, tenor, and bass. The headman at 
the bass echoes him slightly, and then all the singers, ■ 
coughing a little, rise and sound, and start upon their 
travels. The singing, as I remember it, was spirited and 
pretty exact — the treble getting sometimes a half-note 
too high — young girls were especially liable to this, 
which my father corrected by looking sharply in that 
direction, at the slight pauses between the verses. But 
Moses and Aaron / what a picture was that man at the 
bass / The man with the great bass-viol and the — the 
faces ! 

It was good singing, but did not seem to go to the 
heart of the matter, as did my gi*andfather, with Jfcar, 
and my flute, and Aunt Patty to put in the poetry. 

I usually slept through the sermon, with my head 



The Old Connecticut Sunday. 287 

in my mother's lap ; and, at noon, we went over to 

Deacon M 's, and ate dougli-nuts ; and rarely, but 

at times, I got away into a famous orcliard where, in 
their season, were delicious apples. Othei-s grouped 
about the doors, discussing small matters in a low tone, 
and eating fennel and caraway seed. 

At one o'clock, the big bell rang again, faster than 
usual, and every body entered and took their seats with 
an expression of ease and spirit that was entirely pecu- 
liar to the afternoon service. Young men looked about 
in a smart and knowing way, and compared trousers 
and shirt-buttons, or used a penknife in a shy and very 
elegant manner ; while the young girls, — only for the 
young men and that it was Sunday — seemed quite ready 
to fly up into the veiy heavens. 

A few people would be seen in the afternoon, who 
were not there in the morning : they were mostly from 
remote and outlandish places, and had a shy air, as 
though they had been a long time in the woods. 

In accordance with the spirit I have mentioned, the 
prayei-s and the singing were sensibly enlivened in the 
afternoon, and if possible, a set-piece or anthem, was 
sung. If, however, the occasion was one of solemnity, 
a hymn was given out " to close with the doxology :" 
upon which the whole congregation rose, and my heart 



288 Up-Country Letters. 

would suddenly begin pounding, and my brain reel 
away with me, till I felt like sliouting out at the top of 
my voice. 

The afternoon service, especially in the hot summer 
days, seemed very long. Great statements were made 
and recapitulated, arguments entered into, and examined 
and re-examined, while all over the house the drowsy 
air was still and slumberous. The buzz of a blue-bottle 
fly on one of the windows, was heard distinctly through 
the whole building — wasps flew about here and there, 
and were struck at, cautiously, by people on the point of 
dozing. In this still time, a giggle might be heard from 
some boys in the south gallery, where the wasps are 
busiest, and immediately my father rises in his seat, and 
rapping smartly on his pitch-pipe, looks over at the cul- 
prits. My father stands for a moment, in this solemn 
manner, until the disturbance ceases ; and the minister, 
after a slight pause in his sermon, travels on again, and 
after long turns and returns, closes the book slowly, and 
pronounces to all the house, Amen! 

At this moment, a few hired men and others slip out 
quietly to the wagons, and in ten minutes the old house 
is deserted, and the people are seen hurrying away in all 
directions. Wagons come up to the doors with a smart 
crack of the whip, — in jump or climb the women and 



The Old Connecticut Sunday. 289 

children ; and away tliey rattle. Every body liurries, 
because every body is hungry. Dough-nuts and cara- 
way seed are a miserable substitute for dinner. By 
hurry, however, you are not to understand an indecent 
haste : by no means ; but nobody loiters on the way. 

I fear we are getting tiresome, Professor, and I will 
spare you the dinner. Moreover, I will spare you the 
Sunday-night scampering about the country. With all 
its peculiarities, it was to me a holy day : a solemn day. 
It was the Old Connecticut Sabbath ! There never was 
any thing like it before, and there never will be. It has 
gone by. It is of the Past. Already the Old House is 
torn down, and a new church is built in the latest style 
with slips and an organ ! 

It has gone by. 

Yours, Z. P. 



13 



XXV. 

¥mi ia m^ S- ^ Hit Wmwim. 

Pnndison House, March, 1S51. 

The whole affair of tlie dinner at Lady Miriam's was so 
unusual, that I suppose, sir, you will expect to hear of it. 
The invitation was to a family dinner at 3 o'clock, 
on Thursday; to which my father sent the following 
reply : 

Dear Madam : 

We will come. We shall leave 
Pundison House at twelve, or say half-past, by the me- 
ridian marlc, and arrive in the big wagon at 2 P. M. 
In great haste, 

Af ly, 

W. P. 

^g" Keen and Cold, Thnraday, 1.15. 1 
Therm, S bslow : wind N, W. J 



To THE Mountain. 291 

The " af ]y " in tlie above note was a slip 

of the pen, of which I am sure my father was wholly un- 
conscious. It is his way in writing to his children, and 
certainly there was no harm in so subscribing himself 
to the Lady M., but I think it would aimoy him some- 
what to know that he had done it. 

On Thursday, therefore, say twelve to half-past, by 
the clock and the meridian mark, we started for the 
mountain. "We rode in the farm-wagon, behind the old 
bays. Johnny drove, and sat with my father. We had 
three double chairs, and as Kate was desirous of going, 
we locked up the house, buried the fires, and put a 
kitchen chair in the tail of the wagon for Kate. In this 
way we started, but finding the roads exceedingly broken, 
my father made a halt at Captain Dander's, and sent 
Johnny back for Bob and the old brown mare, with a 
tandem harness. 

Thus equipped, and with Bob to ride the mare, we 
started again, and went off with considerable spirit. 
The brown mare is perhaps the most remarkable horse 
to dig and pull on a lead that you ever saw ; and with 
Bob on her back (she being partial to Bob), would have 
taken us up alone. 

We got on very well, except that in rough spots, 
Kate's chair was found to travel about and tip, this way 



292 Up-Country Letters. 

and that, in a very frightful manner, and finally, after a 
few small screams from the women in that end of the 
wagon, we made another halt, and Bob bethought him- 
self of tying the chair fast, which was accordingly done 
by turning it back foremost, and lashing it to the great 
double-chair that was next to it, back to back. In this 
way Kate had oiily a rear view of things, but she travel- 
led safe. 

The morning being bright and spring-like, the feel- 
ing of being embarked in a considerable enterprise, was 
now plainly perceptible ; and as we rattled down to the 
river, and the brown mare broke into a short canter 
(Bob's doings, no doubt), every body talked and looked 
quantities of happiness. Nobody could hear what any 
one said, such was the rattle and the jar, — but it didn't 
seem to make much difference with the enjoyment. My 
father got quite red in the face, calling to Bob to hold 
in the brown mare, but Bob heard nothing but the roar 
of the river — so he said afterwards — so on we went and 
made the bridge in very grand style ; so gi-and, in fact, 
that the whole fabric quivered and quaked as we thun- 
dered on. At this juncture, my father cried out in a 
voice of thunder, — " Whoh /" and half-way over the 
Shag-Bark we came to another halt. The wheel-horses 
braced back ; and the brown mare pulled ahead., but 






To THE Mountain. 293 

was obliged to stop. The stopping was to let T., Joy 
and Kate alight, as we were now at the foot of the 
mountain, and they had decided to walk. Johnny got 
out also, and let down the hold-back, — a long iron bar 
projecting from the hind axletree — a sort of after-thought 
and very excellent in going up steep mountains. My 
father drove, and Tidy came over and sat with me: 
while my father, as we ascended, and arose gradually 
from one plateau to a^other, pointed out the views in 
the landscape beneath us : places of historical interest, 
we may say, where important events occurred, years and 
years ago. At every few rods, in places designed for 
that purpose, we halted, and breathed the horses ; my 
father on each occasion saying Whoh / with a firm em- 
phasis which implied implicit obedience. This, he is 
in the habit of saying, is a matter of importance ; espe- 
cially with horses that are balky. The only way to 
deal with them, sir, is to be prompt. 

The road, I don't hesitate to say, was abominable, 
but the horses were true, the brown mare was a host of 
herself, and if the pull at any time was getting too 
much, my father said tvhoh in advance, and stopped 
preremptorily. We could depend, you observe, upon 
the after-thought even in the steepest places. The dogs 
had started from home full of bark?, but now came 



294 Up-Country Letters. 

on belimd, with tongues lolling and bedraggled tails. 
The affair was unusual. Some distance in advance, 
T. and Joy were laughing and singing to themselves, 
but nearly out of breath. When we came to the big 
chestnut, by the brook, they were all willing to ride 
again. 

Driving through the brook to let the horses drink, 
we now went on at a better pace. The road entered 
the woods here, and it became twilight ; although the 
sun was in fiill blaze on the meridian. There was an 
occasional descent in the rise (an invariable law, I be- 
lieve, in all aspirations) where it seemed like going down 
cellar : so dark and dingy was it, and such a smell of 
old timber and moss. About 2 o'clock we emerged, and 
crossing the brook where the air Avas rich with mint, 
behold at the south, standing high and white in the 
morning sun, amid groups of maples, was the house — 
say mansion rather — of Lady Miriam. Who would ex- 
pect after such an ascent, and such pilings of rocks and 
dead trees, to arrive at last among beautiful meadows, 
and orchards, and clumps of elms and old oaks ? But 
here they were : only at this time, the meadows were 
brown and the orchards bare. 

Lady Miriam came down to the gate, and received 
us with her usual happy manner ; and immediately asked 



To THE Mountain. 295 

my father if he was very well. My father looked at her 
very intently for some moments, and smiled, but made 
no reply, and still keeping his seat, — looked about over 
the meadows ; while the Lady M. stood talking, and the 
young people had alighted, and were on their way up 
to the great north piazza. The dogs having waded 
through the brook, had refreshed themselves, and now 
came up and made lively jumps at the wagon-box, but 
to no purpose. The Lady Miriam asked my father if 
he was ready to alight ; to which he replied that he 
was exceedingly well : " never better in my hfe, madam, 
but that boy, — Bob, — has annoyed me somewhat : I 
never suffer the brown mare to canter in harness : noth- 
ing can be more vicious : but I am extraordinarily well. 
I weighed myself this morning, and I stand at one 
hundred and eighty, and a shade over; my weight, 
madam, has not varied five pounds in more than forty 
years ;" — and looking about on the meadows, he inquired 
of Lady M., if her cattle were stall-fed. 

After several invitations to descend, my father came 
down from his comfortable seat, and we entered the 
great square parlor. The windows of that room look 
north and east, and away across the valley, over dozens 
of mountain ridges that rise like winrows in the dis- 
tance. 



296 Up-Countey Letters. 

I give you welcome, said the Lady M., to my moun- 
tain home, and may you all be as happy as I am. 

Upon this, all the lady-lips flew up again, and kissed 
and were kissed, over and over, while my father and 
myself uncovered our heads and bowed half way to the 
ground. 

This formality being over, we were free, now, oi the 
whole house : to go where we pleased, and be every way 
unaccountable till 3 o'clock. My father took the oppor- 
tunity to examine the Lady M.'s thermometer, with a 
view to have the weather settled and decided for the 
day. By and by, when the great bell rang for dinner — 
a bell which hangs in a kind of tower, at the S. W, 
corner of the house, — T. and Joy were found strolling 
about the great barn-yard, their hair full of dust from a 
fanning mill which was going at a lively rate on the 
barn-floor : I, myself, was taking some observations of 
the ice on the pond ; Tidy was looking down the valley 
at Pundison House with the great telescope ; and my 
father having compared his watch with the bell, was in- 
quiring of the Lady M. if she had a meridian mark. 

Dinner was served in the great dining-room, on the 
south side of the house. After saying grace, my father 
folded his arms, and waited for whatever might happen. 
The old butler stood behind the Lady Miriam, and ira- 



To TUE Mountain. 297 

mediately removed the chief dishes to a side-table 
whence he returned them nicely carved. Considering 
that we were pretty sharp-set, the dinner was served 
with quite as much deliberation as was agreeable. None 
of the Lady M.'s nice things were spared that day. As 
far as she knew individual tastes, she had provided for 
them. 

My father unfolded his arms after a while, and pro- 
ceeded to dine. He is in the habit of saying often at 
home, that he does not eat because he is hungry, or that 
he does not eat such a dish because he likes it, but be- 
cause it is best for him. It sometimes seems rather a 
disappointment to him, if he cannot make one or the 
other of the above remarks; but on this occasion, he 
e\'idently dodged any allusion to them. He was hungry, 
and he doubtless did eat because things relished. 

Before dinner was quite over, the sky suddenly be- 
came overcast, and shutters were heard swinging vio- 
lently in distant chambers. All the valley below grew 
quickly dark and indistinct, and the wind here and 
there set up a low piercing whistle, rising occasionally 
like the cry of some one in distress. A storm was upon 
us ! When we returned to the parlor, the air was crazy 
with the fast-falling snow, carrying the flakes past, in 
great sheets, like the tails of wild horses straight out 
13* 



298 Up-Country Letters. 

upon the wind. My father looked at the thermometer, 
and pronounced it 6 below. A great change. 

Of course to descend the mountain in such a storm 
would be madness. Our only course was to stay over 
night, and then, perhaps, return in Lady M.'s lumber 
sleigh. No one seemed very unhappy at the necessity 
of staying, and it was a great satisfaction now, that we 
had buried the fires so carefully, and left things in such 
order at Pundison House. Some things were to be 
done, however, and Bob was sent down on the brown 
mare, almost suffocated with blankets and neck-tyers. 

Be careful of the mare, said my father, and have her 
well blanketed, and look well to Tib : carry her at 
least three pails of water ; and be careful, sir, how you 
make fires in the house. Do you hear me ? I say, be 
caref — . But by this time, Bob and the brown maro 
were lost in the storm. 

Tea was served soon after Bob was despatched, and 
the evening almost flew away while we were thinking 
what to do with it. Talk and laugh mingled incessant- 
ly, and great wonderments were made in the pauses, 
about the storm. Inquiries were made of my father, if 
he had ever known such a storm before, at this season, 
— to which he replied, that he remembered one just 
such storm, but it was more than forty years ago. 



To THE Mountain. 299 

The house being so high, great expectations were 
had of Northern Lights, in case the sky cleared in time, 
but of this there Avas Uttle hope. 

At 9 o'clock the great bell rang again, and we w^ent 
in to prayers, in the octagon room under the belfry. 
There was gathered already the household of the lady, 
who read the prayers herself, as is her daily custom, — 
while all knelt, save my father, who sat in a big chair 
with his arms folded, and said Ainen, in a low voice, at 
the close of each prayer. Such is the shrinking delicacy 
with which my father treats all religious manifestations, 
he would scarcely have said the amen, if he had sup- 
posed it audible to any other than Him who knoweth 
and heareth all things. It wtvs rather a whisper than 
a distinctly pronounced Amen ! 

After prayers, we looked up the thermometer again, 
and found the quicksilver at 1 0. Fires were accord- 
ingly made in the bed-rooms, and as the day had been 
so extraordinary, all retired early, save Lady M. and my- 
self, wTio sat in the parlor, watching the storm and dis- 
cussing, slowly, various matters connected with other days 
and other lands; southern climates as compared with 
ours, and such like contrasting topics. 

It was nearly 12 o'clock, and the house was very 
still, when my father appeared at the "parlor door, with 



300 Up-Country Letters. 

a lighted candle in one hand, his hat on, but barefooted 
and otherwise lightly clad, — and asked the Lady M. 
what time we should breakfast. Receiving the informa- 
tion in an abstracted way, as though sleep-walking, he 
stepped out on the piazza, took one more look at the 
thermometer, and immediately retired. 

The habit of going about in this way, in strange 
houses, as also in hotels, is one of which my father is 
probably unconscious, and arises from his nightly cus- 
tom at Pundison House, of looking at the weather, just 
before retiring : his way being to wait until he is par- 
tially undressed before he makes his observations. How 
this barefoot and otherwise-windy exposure is to be 
made consistent with the extreme care which he mani- 
fests in stepping with his heavy boots on ground that is 
only slightly damp, is known only to himself. 

By midnight we were all stowed away, and the storm . 
was sighing itself into a state of rest. Tliere were no 
Northern Lights, but the stars, as I looked out for a 
moment, before I gave way to slee'p, were bright and 
sparkling. 

Do you see any Northern Lights? said T. No, 
said I, but I see the heavens, and very much, I suspect, 
as God made them in the day of their creation. Good 
night, httle T. Good night, Zarry. And so ended 



To THE Mountain. 301 

our day on the mouutain : one we shall not soon 
forget. 

We returned the next morning, in the great sleigh, 
with two strings of bells, and went jingling past Capt. 
Dander's, in magnificent style. As we drove into the 
yard at Pundison House, the horses were on a long trot, 
continually doing a little and a little more — my father 
crying whoh to no purpose, apparently, except to ex- 
cite them to a livelier motion. I remember the time 
when my father drove like a whirlwind, but now he says, 
drive slow ; drive slow. And as we get on in life, we 
are all more inclined, — are we not, Professor ? — to say 
—drive slow. 

But slow or fast, we are now, as the engineers say, 
at the place of beginning. Good morning, sir, and 
addio, Z, P. 



XXVI. 

March, '61 , Up-Cuuntry. 

Mv father was right. I have driven too fast. 

And oh, that some angel, in the days gone by, had 
continually written in letters of fire between me and this 
our dashing world, — in all times of peril, in by-ways and 
in dark places, — those words of wisdom, drive sloiv, 
drive sloio. 

For now, — we must go on ; — at whatever rate, we 
must drive on : and there is no rest, — no rest, — though 
we go to wreck and ruin, as crumbling bones and be- 
wildered head attest. In short. Professor, we are coming 
to a break up. 

The outriders are about : outriders of the long nights, 
— the nights to come : nights of watching and trouble; 
among the mountains, — the dark mountains: among 
the strange faces, and doings still more strange : nights 



Drive Slow. 303 

to which the morning is a hymn of joy and thanks- 
giving. 

And beyond — is Death. Over the way there, — and 
not far, — death. Ilim, with God's help, we can meet, 
but I like not this company. 

Forerunners of evil — officious messeugei-s, — Vanish f 

I say this with some dignity, but in a moment they 
are here again ; and oh so bus}^ busy, busy — and for- 
ever in that continual mutter and sneeze. 

You will think, perhaps, I am outlining imaginary 
things. "Would that I could give you just the outlines. 
It would satisfy you for a lifetime, even if3'ouhad been 
born in the Hartz Mountains. Frank knows them well, 
but he is away over the blue water. 

They are about me, by times, all day — these ima- 
ginary (?) voices, but at night they come in crowds. 

It is now approaching the midnight, and I am alone, 
writing here with pen, ink and paper. This, I suppose, 
is fact. I am a fact, also. I see myself, the paper and 
pen, the fire now in its ashes, the empty chairs which our 
gentle-people left an hour ago for their rooms above ; 
and to any one else the room would seem solemn and 
still as the Q'rave. It is not. Solemn cnous-h it is, — 
but full of people. I could see them with slight effort, 
but am careful to make no experiments. I have tried 



304 Up-Countrt Letters, 

that in times past : it was unpleasant. It is enough to 
hear them, as I do now, — not in some distant chamber, 
but here at my elbow, — within the sweep of my arm, — 
muttering and complaining always in low sad tones, 
but all about what, no man knoweth this side the grave. 
Long, long discussions, broken with sudden starts and 
pauses, exclamations, whistlings, and coughings espe- 
cially : but mainly it is a low grumbling monotone from 
very unhappy people apparently, avIio can't be satisfied, 
and are continually questioning and questioning, and 
again questioning, and objecting for ever and for ever 
to all propositions of peace. 

I turn round in my chair (they are always on my 
left) and say to them, mentally, — "Will yon please stop 
for a few moments, will you have the kindness to be — 
quiet, say for five minutes, (only 5 minutes) while I 
finish this letter ?" I do this in the gentlest manner, 
but— 

" No — no — can't stop — can't — can't — can't, — donH 
know hoio — no — no — can't stop." 

I rise, and thunder — Get out! Scatter ! 

This frightens them some (they are afraid of me as 
death — there's comfort in that) — but in a moment they 
are here again. 

Question. Why do they come to me 1 Professor, 



Drive Slow. 805 

man of science, star-gazer, why ? and why do they come 
to met I can't help them. Let them sjieak out, and 
above board, but these hints. — 

I shudder to think, however, that if they should 
speak plainly, intelligibly, I should inevitably reply : 
and this, carried on to any extent, would be — what ? 
Speak it out. Professor, speak it out — no hints from 
you, my fast friend, — it would be ? madness ! 

This, however, I do not apprehend : for I know them 
of old. They are forerunners of the long nights, beyond 
which, as I said, is death. But let them come. I have 
driven too fast, and must pay the reckoning. One word 
of beauty kills them, as to any harm they can do me: 
that is to say — Addio ! Addio ! Z. P. 



mn- 



I. 

Up-Country, April, 1851. 

The time of the singing of birds has come, and now, my 
old friend, we open windows again, and say Httle pray- 
ers of thanksgiving all day, that at last the winter is 
over. 

Is it Spring with you, Professor ? Do you wate at 
the first blush of day ? Do you get up with a song 
in your mouth ? I grieve to say, that with me there is 
still a lingering of winter. I stop not to inquire into it. 
It is not well, sir; at least it is not wise, — as we grow 
older, — to criticise too sharply our short-comings of 
spirit. I do not thank any one to explain to me, with 
exact science, the cause of an added wrinkle, or of one 
more group of gray hairs on my temples. Let us not exa- 
mine too nicely into particulars. 

I have, of late, two letters from Frank, which in 



310 Up-Country Letters. 

some remote way, may have given the wintry tone to 
these spring clays, — for the air is soft as April ever sends 
to us. Perhaps it is this. 

You will see, by these letters, that Frank is trying 
to put a pleasant face upon the change that is coming 
upon him : the spring, — the summer that is before him. 
A summer that will be far away from us, my old friend, 
and no winter to track it with desolation. 

Yours, Z. P. 



LETTER FROM FRANK BRYARg. 

rUce De RiTcili, \ 
March '51. J 

Dear Pun.: 

Did you ever look on Connec- 
ticut River and the valley from Mount Holyoke ? This 
perched-up place makes me think of it. We are five 
stairs up, and from this height look plump down upon 
the flower gardens of the Tuileries. The plots remind 
me of that checker- work in the Connecticut Valley. 

We have the funniest little rooms, with each one 
bed, one door, one chair, one window opening to one 
balcony ; and one air of — comfort not so much as — pro- 
priety and taste ; and peculiar all to this light-hearted 
city. 



Letter from Frank Bryaus. 311 

We are getting systematic, and are already in rou- 
tine. Every morning, as soon as possible after the sun 
comes in at my window, I spring out and make my way 
up the Rue Richelieu, to the London Tavern, to break- 
fast, I go there to get a good cup of tea and beefsteak 
a VAnglaise. Then, a little to the left, I come down 
through by the Palais Royal, and climbing up to this 
perch, am ready for the day. Fanny, by this time, has 
breakfasted by herself, and is perhaps gone to church. 
In this case, I sally out into St. Honore, and meet the 
child somewhere up by Place Vendome, where we hire 
a cabriolet and start upon our travels over this strange 
cit}'. This occupies us till about 5 o'clock, when we 
are set down at Numero 3 in this little Place, and go 
up to the Palais Royal to dine. There, in the Orleans 
Gallery, we find a range of rooms looking down upon 
the court, where every day a little table seems to be 
kept for us, for it is always vacant, though the room is 
usually pretty full by this hour. It is a kind of home 
to us, and becoming more so, every day. At dinner I 
have been tempted into a small bottle of Beaune, and 
as Fanny is rather partial to it also, I order now two 
half-bottles. If, after dinner and wine, I stop into a 
Cafe, after leaving Fanny at our door, and sip away ten 
miiiuto?; more, in a cup of cofe-att-lnii, T seem to he 



312 Up-Country Letters. 

built up into a tower of strength, sufficient for all possi- 
ble tilings. Fariny is not less brave, even without the 
coffee. 

The very day we anived here, we dined in this same 
way, and for wine we drank this same precious Burgun- 
dy. As we returned under the Arcade to Meurice's, 
where we were then staying, Fanny began to get some 
appreciation of this wonderful place. " Well," said she, 
looking rather queer out of her eyes, " there certainly 
is something in this Paris that is very pleasant. Dear 
Frank, don't you think so ? They all have such a hap- 
py Avay of doing every thing ; and they make every 
body so happy — so — one can hardly say what — Je ne ) 
sais quoi, you know, — but, my dear brother, don't you 
think so ?" 

As I was slightly boozed myself, I gave, you may 
suppose, a rapturous assent to all the charming Fanny 
had to say ; so that when we mounted into our parlor, 
and started our pine-cones, and got our two sticks of 
wood blazing, we were as happy — as Burgundy could 
make us. 

But the next day, came the shock of a Parisian 
Sunday. It was terrible. Think of meeting a hundred 
thousand crazy people in a great square, and all singing 
(or as many as had throats to sing with) their movrir 



Letter from Frank Bryars. 313 

pour la patrie, and whatever otlier hi-diddle-diddle, and 
diddle-de-dee ! 

If life were all one holiday, and this kind of fun and 
spoit were the best that could be made of it, one would 
like to live in Paris. 

We have already looked about a little. That fa- 
moiLS P(!re La Chaise is to me simply detestable. The 
spot is beautiful enough, overlooking, as it does, the 
whole city; but the little streets and chapels and im- 
mortels are in such children's taste, that a man, one 
would say, would not care to lie there. 

Ah well : I must soon make my bed in some such 
place, and I suppose it will not matter much what kind 
of foolery may be going on overhead. Good-bye, Pun. 
Look for us now pretty soon. Paris is to that smoky 
and foggy London, as light is to darkness, and one can- 
not but look up here, and step somewhat elate ; but I 
know a land, and a smartish kind of a town on a far-off 
shore, that are brighter even than this delectable city. 
Oh, never believe, my people, that there ever was or 
ever will be, a country or a sky like Uncle Sam's ! I 
think of you (from these dead countries) as living in 
continual sunshine and glory : alive and awake, to some 
purpose. 

For a few days now, Fanny and I have yet to look 
14 



314 Up-Country Lktters. 

in at their famous galleries : to fill our places, and emp- 
ty our demi-houtelles, in the Palais Royal, and then — 
and then — Westward Ho ! Westward IIo ! 

Yours, 

Frank Bryars. 

From the second letter, which I also inclose, you will 
observe that he is now on his way home. There came 
with this a note to Tidy, since which the child has 
scarcely smiled. She goes about the house as in a 
dream, looking at us so earnestly — that long, deep 
gaze — but with her thoughts evidently far away on the 
seas. Again and again, as she glides about through 
the rooms, she pauses at the south windows, and seems 
looking as for some one that she expects will siu-ely 
come to-day. 

It is hard that we cannot talk with ber about Frank. 
The moment any thing is said, showing the least sym- 
pathy with her, she runs away, and for hours thereafter 
will have a look as of fear and bewilderment : a deep, 
wild look, almost as of madness. How strange is this, 
in one so gentle as our sister Tidy ! 

I give you the letter. 

NuMKBO 3, Placb DE RiVOlT, 

Dear Pun, — We are coming at last. This letter 
will not travel much faster than shall we. T mu^t tell 






Letter from Frank Bryars. 315 

you, my old friend, — I am breaking up. Aye, sir, tlie 
story is about told. Blessed be Heaven, I hope to get 
me once more over the blue Atlantic, and so look once 
again upon your faces, before I die. This Paris is not 
the place for me. I fear me, I could not die peaceably 
in this city of all abominations. I must see you all 
again, and hear once more those saucy blackbirds ; and 
then if God so wills it, let me go. I have carried this 
body about the world long enough, perhaps. It is of 
late rather a burden to me. I shall not be unwilling, I 
hope, to look in (ah Pun, what an hour will that be!) 
to look in upon that upper life — to be lost in the beauty 
and glory of that new world. Christ have mercy upon 
us, and prepare us for that hour. Good-bye, my old 
friend, good-bye, good-bye. 

Frank Bryars. 



II. 

Pundison House, April, 1851. 

I SEND you, sir, but a brief line. Frank is home again ; 
but as lie himself intimated in liis last letter, he will 
make but a short stay with us. He is about to start 
now on a longer journey : a wider range of travel. He 
is changed in face and figure, and walks with difficulty . 
but he has his wish, — to see us once more, and to hear 
his blackbirds sing : and soon now, some pleasant morn- 
ing, he will have gone on. You will understand from 
this, sir, why I have not written of late, and why I can- 
not now. My days and nights are given to Frank. 
Changed as he is, it is not very sad to look upon him, 
because one can see from the calmness and steadiness 
of his eye, and the joy that is in it, that he is going on 
a pleasant journey. I would not detain him, even for a 
day. 



Frank's Arrival and Good-Bye. 317 

Tidy left us the morning that Frank anived at his 
house. All her shyness vanished at once. She told us 
that she was going to stay with him for the rest of his 
days. It was to be her home. Knowing when he was 
to arrive, she went up to the house, and received him at 
his own threshold. Calm and happy, and self-possessed, 
all her late bewilderment is over. Hour after hour she 
sits by his bedside, holding his thin white hand, but I 
see no tears now. Her face is radiant of peace. Her 
step light, but elate and almost commanding, and her 
manner at times, so high and rapt, as though she was 
standing at heaven's gates, and with gentle force delay- 
ing for a little, the opening of those doors that lead into 
the world of light. All this, in so mere a child, is new 
and wonderful to us, — almost beyond belief. 

I send you some lines, which were found on Frank's 
table, a day or two since. 

They are written in a curious verse, probably of his 
own construction. He seems to have amused himself 
somewhat, in packing his thought in this hard form ; 
and occasionally, as you will observe, he reverses the 
form, making something like the figure of a vase — a 
sort of urn, in which to leave the ashes of his Good- 
Bye. 



318 Up-Country Letteks, 



GOOD-BYE. 

All the loDg night in pain, 
Waking or tossing : 
Dreaming the same dream again ; 
The same wild heath, crossing and re-crossing: 



Or sitting sometimes by a tropic sea, 
Where the shoreward breeze comes softj 
While like destiny, 
The storm-cloud ^its aloft. 

Then sweep o'er creation 

— ^Trembling as a child — 

Ruin and Desolation : 

The deep low thunders, and red lightnings wild. 

For always there must be 

Confusion, after 
Any rest or peace for me : 
Even in dreams, tears must follow laughter. 

Waking, I find my cold hands press'd around 
My burning temples. Again 
I feel and hear the sound, 
— The blood-beat, — in the brain. 



Good-Bye. 319 

This is not madness quite ; for still I know 
And somewhat guide it ever : 
This dreamer of woe, 
Wandering on for ever ! 

Thank God, these nerves must rust I 
And perchance this brain 
And bundle of bones be dust, — 
Ero yet the maple put forth buds again. 

For is there not a higher life — not here — 
Where Hope is not track'd ever 

By its shadow, — Fear, — 
As Night tracks Day forever? 

Let the sweet Morning say: for, crimsoned o'er, 

All so fair it is. and bright, 

As if nevermore, 

Would come again the Night. 

Gently the maple waves its arms about, 
In the warm air : comes the Day 
Gladly ! like that shout, 
Of children at their play. 

Let us sit here, dear one, beneath this tree, 

And talk of that blessed home, 

Whither we journey : 

That peaceful life to come. 



320 Up-Country Letters. 

Oh say that we shall meet again, if now 

This quick pulse must cease to play, 
And this fevered brow 
From sight be laid away. 

Say not that I shall live : but in Life's Noon, 
Bid me God speed on my way: 
Then follow thou soon ; 
Oh stay not long away. 

Read to me from The Book, 
And calm thy spirit there : 
I would see again the look, 
Thy sweet face ever weareth, after prayer. 

So look on that last day, 
When the golden bowl 
Shall be broken ; and decay 
Shall claim these earth-soiled garments from my soul. 

And I will think an angel from on high, 
Has come down to go with me 

To that bright country, 
Over the lone, wild sea, — 

Where is no trouble more : 

Where all pain shall cease ; 
On that calm and peaceful shore, 
Where dwelleth God and His Angels,— Rest and Peace. 



III. 

TiDV, my child, is it so ? Is he dead ? 

She gives me no answer ; but her heart is throbbing 
fearfully, and her lips move, but what it is I do not 
hear. 

Yes, he is dead. Frank Bryars is dead. 

Do you hear this, my friend, — my star-gazer, — my 
royal Professor ? Dead ! Do you understand this ? 

Ah, no, — it is nothing to you. He is not dead to 
you. He is dead, however. 

Tell me again, my sister, — is he gone ? Ah, that 
word. To be dead, — doubtless that is very bad : but 
gone ! 

" No," she says, " he is not gone, and he loots as 
though he were only sleeping." 

He is not gone, that is something. Dead ! It is 
14* 



322 



Up-Country Letters. 



difficult. I do not understand it. Doubtless he is dead, 

but then 

Who is it speaks to me ? Some one is call- 



ing to me. 

Oh forgive me, thou blue heaven — forgive me, ur 
FATHER. He is not dead — he lives for ever I 



IV. 

The Parlor in Frank's Home. 

It is the break of day. Shafts of red are piercing the 
sky in the east, and T. and I are sitting by an open 
■window, looking out upon all this calmness and beauty. 
I wonder now if our friend Frank is looking at this 
scene. Does he hear the blackbirds in the poplars? 
Does he see us sitting here by bis dead body ? 

With this, his dead body, Ave have been up all 
through the cool, dewy night : T., with her head in my 
lap, half-sleeping, and whispering in her sleep. 

How short the night was ! but how long the few 
days seem to me since I Avrote you of our friend's arrival 
home. It is only a few weeks, and now he is gone 
again, but has left us this pale likeness. There is noth- 
ing sad about his departure but tliis : all else is only 
beautiful. But this form in which God permitted him 



324 Up-Country Letters. 

to appear to us, must now be put away. So apt as it 
was, and so identified with Franli liimself — all that we 
know of the man whom we called Frank Bryars, — it is 
hard to throw it away ; to hide it in the ground. This 
is hard. 

But the morning goes up into the heavens; the 
crimson lines fade, and the silver glory of day is over 
all. We will go now, and leave our friend in his white 
robes, until another morning. 



V. 

PundUon House, April 1851. 

Through all the heavens, this day has been bright and 
royal. To those who could so receive it, it has been a 
happy day. To me it has been a sad one. It is strange 
that I should still linger over it : still wish to give you 
its history ; its painful detail. 

In the early morning, a soft wind came up from the 
south, and went playing about, here and there, in a 
gentle manner, but all its tones seemed sad and mourn- 
ful. I do not know that they were so, but so they 
seemed to me. The garden and the meadow were gay 
w^ith birds, but they, too, seemed only to be repeating 
to each other some sad strain. 

The funeral was at 10 o'clock. By that time the 
old house was full of people, as also was the east pi- 
azza ; and groups of a half dozen or more, stood here 



326 Up-Country Letters. 

and there, in the front yard, within hearing of the ser- 
vices. On each side of the way, for a quarter of a mile, 
stood the plain country wagons that had brought the 
people there. Wagons with common kitchen chairs, 
and some with only boards, covered with Buffalo robes ; 
and occasionally was seer, a one-horse wagon ; or the 
old-fashioned chaise. 

T. and Joy went up with me, and went into the par- 
lor. My father seated himself in a large chair on the 
piazza, and Little Gem and myself sat down on one of 
the piazza steps. I did not care to go in, and I think 
Little Gem did not. She was very still and calm be- 
times, and then suddenly would seat herself in my lap, 
and begin to sob, as with a feeling of exhaustion that 
was almost death itself. Then stopping again, she would 
step out into the young grass, and getting a few blades, 
would return and look at them, and weave them into 
braids for me to examine. 

My father sat very straight in his chair, looking out 
upon the meadows, and upon his countenance appeared 
a light as from some other clime. 

A hymn was given out, and the words and air being 
well known to all the people, very many both within 
and without, joined in it. The windows were all open, 
and the voices were as one. My father still gazed down 
upon the meadows. 



The Funeral. 827 

-A chapter was read from the Bible, and the clear 
low tone of the minister sounded very kindly in the still 
air. After a few remarks proper for the occasion, a 
prayer for the living, over the dead, rose in the quiet 
morning, and went up into Heaven. How still it was ! 
The sobbing of the women, the checked cry of anguish, 
and the chirp of the birds in the garden, — how distinct 
were they all ! 

And now the cofBn was brought out ; friends took 
their last look ; and the procession started slowly for 
the grave. There were few that did not go up to the 
burial-gi'ound. Almost all joined in the long line, cov- 
ering a distance of more than half a mile in extent. We 
rode up in the farm wagon, my father and myself 
sitting together. The Lady Miriam and the old butler 
rode their horses, side by side. The grave levels all 
ranks. The Lady !Miriam sat erect and stately, and, 
like my father, seemed gazing into the distance, as into 
some other world. In my lap rode Little Gem, still 
sobbing by turns, and braiding her grasses. Soon after 
the procession started, the great bell in the old meeting- 
house, nearly a mile distant, began to tojl, and as we ap- 
proached slowly, — our horses walking, — sounded louder 
and louder, until, as we passed, it became fainter again, 
till, winding about among the hills, it died entirely away. 



328 Up-Country Letters. 

As we passed the old House, Little Gem busied herself 
for a short time, looking up at the bell-man, as he leaned 
over the railing for a moment, to see the great proces- 
sion go by. How httle he looked up there, but how 
ten-ible was that heavy sound. There was heard only 
this toll, and the cough and wheeze of the horses, here 
and there, in the long procession ; and the slow rumble 
of the wagons, or the jingle of traces in some short de- 
scent, where the horses broke into a slow trot. On — 
on — on : so slowly, oh, so slowly ! and that heavy 
toll! 

Looking from a high hill, I could see away beyond 
the foot of it, and up the opposite hill-side, and for a 
long distance on the plain. So slowly, oh, so slowly ! 
WiU it never be over ? that my friend can rest : that 
he may sleep ? Will they never go away, these people, 
that he may take his rest ? 

At last, the ancient burial-ground is reached. The 
grave is found, and down into its depths, this, the dust 
of my friend Frank, is slowly lowered. A little straw is 
thrown upon his coffin, — earth is given to earth, dust 
to dust ; and while all the people raise their hats, the 
minister offers a prayer, and turning to the neighbors, 
thanks them in the name of his friends, for coming to 
" help bury the dead out of their sight." 



The Funeral. 329 

And so it is over. The body in which dwelt our 
friend Frank, is bin-ied and laid away, six feet down in 
the ground. Thanic God it is well done. Thank God 
it is over. This flesh and blood will trouble him no 
more. No more wild dreams, my fi-iend : no more 
aches and pains and small frettings of life. No more, — 
no more ! 



VI. 

Pundison House, Up-Country, ) 
May, lti51, { 

We are going down to tlie sea-side, my old fi-iend, and 
if you come north, I beg you to find us out. My father 
has got all his garden seeds planted, and is not unwil- 
ling to leave home for awhile. 

He will stay in the city, while we go to the beach. 
Fanny is going up to stay with the Lady Miriam. It 
•wUl be very pleasant on the mountain ; and I sometimes 
think I will build a house there myself. 

You will not expect to hear from me often now. In 
fact, I cannot say, sir, when I may take up this corres- 
pondence again. But write me all the same, and as 
usual, tell me pleasant things. My hand is heavy now ; 
and my brain feels light and clouded. I will go and 



Addio. 831 

talk to the surf as it dashes on beach, and some 

day, God willing, perhaps, we will talk again of our up- 
country affairs. 

But now, Farewell, 

Z. PUNDISON. 

Profctsor B., Nntional Obaeiralory, ) 
Wftsiiiogtou. > 



THE END, 



3477-9 



I 



I 



